


Get Away from Me Closer

by Delongpaw



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, D/s dynamic, Death of minor character, M/M, Original Character(s), Out of Character, Roma | Rome, Virgin Elio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-08-24 18:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delongpaw/pseuds/Delongpaw
Summary: Elio and Oliver meet in Rome.  It's 2018 but some things never change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ah. This is a bit different. Many Many thanks to Mae428 sounding board and grammar queen. Go read her stories!! So Lovely.

He had never wanted for anything, well, sort of. Wanting, desire was present only for a few short moments until it was fulfilled. There was never longing, a prolonged period of lusting after something and then waiting to get it. A car, a new home, someone beautiful in his bed, the inevitability of his requests being answered was taken for granted. It didn’t make him spoiled or arrogant, just complacent, and a touch self-satisfied. He could fake pining for something but he did value authenticity, he wasn’t a sociopath after all, just a very charismatic man with somewhat conventional desires.

Indeed, his family was wealthy, they had more money than most of us can conceive of. As fortune would have it, the universe had endowed him with the uncanny gift of discovering astonishingly fruitful investment prospects. The first few times he hit on something his father considered him lucky, after the next two windfalls everyone knew it went way beyond luck. His speculations had yielded enough income that he never had to report to an office again. This, of course, a blessing and a curse.

Things just came easily to him. It had always been this way. As a child, he knew if he turned on the charm his wishes would be granted, and if his requests were reasonable there would be no resistance. The reinforcement of his behavior was encouraging; toys, treats, special trips to Disneyland, anything he wanted - by being magnetic, enrolling those around him into his fan club. This lethal allure was born of a deep-seated need to secure the unconditional love he felt he never got from his parents. They were very busy people and, of course, they loved him, but it always felt fleeting and temporary to him. 

When he was older and didn’t need things from his parents, he used his mesmerizing appeal to get women into his bed. It was astonishingly easy and became less and less interesting to him. Not that he didn’t genuinely care for them, or that he was a selfish lover, quite the opposite. He was magnificently present, lavishing devotion and affection on the object of his momentary attention. But when he was done, it was complete. He had fully experienced the coupling and looked to the next new encounter. It didn’t hurt that he was exceedingly tall and had the build of an elite athlete, his dark blond hair, wavy and full, scruffy beard framing his strong jaw – the intense seafoam blue eyes mesmerizing in their clarity. 

He soon turned his attention to beautiful young men. The desire always there, yet not acted upon, until his early twenties. In some ways, this was easier. There were more who wanted less: the appeal of an instant of ecstasy, a temporary worship of the others’ beauty, an appreciation given fully yet not prolonged. When the challenge of luring beautiful gay men into his bed became routine and unremarkable he found himself drawn to straight men. It was more the challenge than anything else. His success rate was lower, and he never tried to close the deal, but the rush was getting them to come on to him. The payoff was richer, taking something that was denied to everyone but him.

None of these pursuits were calculated, they were, in fact, the blessed actions of the unconscious. The curse of awareness not needed because there was no pain, just the transitory gratification of a rarified climax.

Lest you think of him as a psychopath, or at the very least superficial, I assure you he is not. He genuinely cares about people, his interest true and laser sharp. That’s the thing that draws you in, his authentic concern and focused attention. It’s like a hit of heroin; a psychic vampire reflecting back to you all that you ever wanted.

 

He’s had two actual relationships as it were, lasting 4 months and a year respectively. The first with a woman his senior year at Princeton. She had been a friend, steadfastly refusing his relentless pursuit, holding him at arm’s length just long enough for him to really know her. It was this understanding and empathic connection that convinced him he was in love. It was a relief after all, to know that he was capable of sustained romantic feelings.

The end of college marked the end of the love affair. She went on to graduate school in Washington D.C. with her eye set on a career in foreign service. A long-term lockdown held no appeal for her, ambition diluting her need and desire for him.  
For the longest time, he held her in that tired place of the ‘one that got away.’

The second relationship was more complicated. The only thing it can be compared to is a D/s situation without the forced physical component, the consensual abuse was purely emotional. Initially based on a love of surfing and volleyball, two summer gods frolicking in the sun, meeting by accident at a juice bar in Malibu. Let’s call him L. His car, a classic 1946 woodie Ford wagon was the icebreaker, forging a two-hour conversation that ended up at Maestro’s on the beach, drinking until last call. 

Pretty quickly L sized up our hero’s modus operandi and reflected back to him a version of his own charm. If you hold two mirrors up in perfect alignment, the image will be reflected endlessly. If you think too much about that, it can make you crazy. And Oliver, as you will come to know him, chose in that moment not to think about it, avoiding introspection to chase the novel experience of gazing into infinity.

The dynamic was in place that first meeting, L leading and then following, Oliver thinking he had the upper hand only to be left hanging as L drifted to the ocean deck to flirt with the bartender. It set the tone for a year of ups and downs, L exerting subtle emotional control over Oliver: exquisite sex followed by casual indifference, a transformative soul melting conversation dismissed the next day as stoned ramblings. It would have driven a mere mortal to despair yet Oliver was fully onboard. At last, he wanted something ostensibly he couldn’t have. And L was a master at dangling the prize just out of reach, dancing on Oliver’s fingertips but pulling away when the grasping began. L’s sexual preference never stated overtly, his fidelity never discussed. 

It might have continued for years if not for two things; L was unceremoniously hit by a texting driver on the Pacific Coast Highway and killed instantly. And Oliver met Elio.

 

Elio

He had always been a loner, not because he hated people, certainly not. He just had enough going on in his head to keep him occupied. He had friends, and could tolerate some time together, but after more than four hours with someone, little things started to drive him crazy: the way they chewed their food, their verbal tics, even their walking pace until he could no longer abide it and made some excuse to get away. 

His parents were loving, available, interested in everything he did, and that too colored his perception, there were no locks on the door...not just a metaphor, but a reality. At times their love felt invasive and overwhelming, threatening to absorb him into nothingness. Boundaries blurred, he didn’t know where he started and they ended. 

He just assumed it would always be this way. Happier alone he would work on his music, transcribing for hours, playing favorite pieces, listening to the nuances of a treasured recording. He did long for closeness, physical intimacy that he saw his friends share with their boyfriends and girlfriends. How could you want something that you hadn’t experienced? To quote a popular song ‘he ached with a nameless need.’ He had no frame of reference for closeness that didn’t obliterate your sense of being. 

Elio drifted down to Rome for the Spring semester. He needed a change of scenery. The music school in Milan had become rote for him and it was his professor’s idea that new surroundings might inspire him. Frankly, he needed space between him and his loving well-intentioned parents. 

Dear Elio, completely unaware that his naiveté and disinterest gives him the air of utter aloofness – the siren call for Oliver. It was bound to happen, these two forces drawn together to amuse the universe, a diversion from the endless interplay of night and day, life and death.


	2. Chapter 2

The loss of L is complicated for Oliver. Never had he felt more alive than teetering on the edge of the possibility of getting what he thought he wanted, but the game had left him wary and depleted.  L’s calculated contest of ‘get away from me closer you’re near me too far’ was exhausting and ultimately unsatisfying. Thoughts of ending the arduous relationship had started to creep into Oliver’s musings. L’s sudden death made Oliver not only sad but guilty as well. How much of L’s demise is Oliver’s fault? This idea occupies far too many of his waking hours.  This irrationality, don’t forget, is coming from someone whose desires manifest almost immediately.  If just the mere consideration of terminating the relationship results in almost instantaneous death, you too might jump to an illogical conclusion.

Any shrink will tell you that magical thinking is a human construct.  But Oliver has lived in a state of blissful ignorance for all of his 24 years. He exists under the self-deluded illusion that he is somehow in control.  Reflection, humility, and guidance are things that await him - when he is ready for the truth.

He wallows for six months in chaste isolation.  Without the diversion of sex, and by avoiding his usual haunts and socially privileged acquaintances, his thoughts remain inward.  He is, for the first time in his life, lost.

In his desultory state, Oliver makes the unprecedented decision to leave his sybaritic life behind and travel to Italy. With no return flight booked and no pre-planned itinerary, he stops first in Rome, to get acclimated.  Normally he would have just booked the Hassler, his go-to place right in the center of everything, 5 star luxury with all that that implies. 

Determined that things from now on would be different, he opts for a small apartment he finds through Air BnB not far from the Park Villa Borghese in a neighborhood he is both comfortable and familiar with.    

The first 12 hours are a blur: the airport, a taxi, the pleasant surprise of a lovely clean apartment and then a blissful sleep, 9 hours of renewal and a superb Nespresso on the balcony.

He decides to run in the gardens of the Villa Borghese not far from his apartment. The park circuit is about 6k, a perfect Sunday morning jog.  It’s sunny, brisk, a slight breeze. Dodging the tourists gathering on the Spanish Steps is a good start to get his blood pumping as he heads through the gates to the park. The gardens remind him of English Gardens, the serpentine paths, the follies in the distance.  Even the  Bois de Vincennes in Paris is similar to this particular part of the park.  He smiles as he is visually reminded of the fabric covering the walls in his mother’s dressing room, this scenery is toile wallpaper come to life, all that is missing are the couples with powdered wigs picnicking on the grounds. 

He first sees Elio sitting across the pond from the Tempio di Esculapio as he runs by on the paved path.  Elio is on a blanket wearing headphones transcribing music on staff paper.

There is no thunderclap, no cupid’s arrow flung from across the water, just a glance at a lovely boy on a Spring morning. 

Elio, practiced in not displaying interest, can’t help but notice the golden deity jogging by. Was there an escape from the Temple of Aesculapius?  Did the god of rejuvenation finally come to life right before his eyes? He chuckles to himself and goes back to his music. 

The next time Oliver sees Elio is at Il Baretto, a little nondescript cafe not far from his apartment. 

He stands behind him as he orders a Nutella brioche. Oliver winces at the request, the server smiling over Elio’s shoulder at the charismatic American. 

Elio turns around “ Che cosa?”  Ready to take on anyone who dares to mock his Nutella brioche.

“Sorry, it just sounds impossibly sweet, troppo dolce,” Oliver says with an appraising look thrown Elio’s way.   

“And what’s wrong with sweet?” Elio counters in flawless unaccented English. 

“Obviously nothing,” Oliver says, eyes sweeping over Elio’s lithe frame, his deep baritone resonating in the small eatery. 

The entire conversation is watched with rapt attention by the young woman behind the counter. 

It’s debatable whether she has any idea of what is actually being said, her fascination lies in the sparks generated between the two men. 

The handsome stranger’s silent consideration of Elio makes him uncomfortable. He is not used to such brazen admiration. He reacts outwardly with disdain, picking up his pastry and coffee, he retreats to a small table to look at his phone and pointedly ignore Oliver. 

Never one to look back, Oliver strolls to the cloistered garden to eat his sandwich in the sun. 

Elio is in fact mesmerized by Oliver’s good looks and presence. Sneaking one more look before he disappears from view, Elio doesn’t think he knows anyone that even comes close to being that handsome. But, he thinks to himself, he’s probably an asshole, and not very bright. 

The third time their paths cross is at the Keats Shelley House right next to the Spanish steps. Oliver sees a posting about a poetry reading there, and he has always wanted to see the house. 

He arrives a few minutes early and takes a seat in the beautiful library.  The reading is entitled John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley: Essential Poems read by a team of poetry ambassadors from the Keats House in London. It is not particularly crowded, there are a few seats still open.  

The opening poem is “ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER.”  Oliver tries to stop himself from saying the words along with the reader. It is one of his favorites; touching upon the idea that a great work of art can be a transforming experience. He is completely transfixed by the lovely soft English accent reciting the sonnet. The next poem, also by Keats,  is “Ode to Psyche”, another of Oliver’s favorites. As he sits, entranced, Elio passes by the library, seemingly aggravated by the gathering - inconvenienced at the very least. He spies an empty seat and slides in noiselessly. Only after he sits does he realize who he is next to. What are the chances? he thinks.  

Oh, Elio! When the universe wants to amuse itself, synchronicity takes full control, meaningful coincidences become the norm.  

Settling in, he turns to look at Oliver who is saying the words along with the speaker, quite unaware of his whispered karaoke.

        In some untrodden region of my mind, 

Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, 

         Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: 

Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; 

And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; 

And in the midst of this wide quietness 

 

A rosy sanctuary will I dress 

With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 

        With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, 

With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: 

And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

 

That shadowy thought can win, 

      A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 

 To let the warm Love in! 

 

As the speaker finishes and the audience respectfully applauds, Oliver is suddenly very aware of Elio’s presence. 

“I hope you brought me a Nutella brioche,” he whispers close to Elio’s ear.  

Elio leans into Oliver and says, ”I came to use the library, I had no idea this was going on.“

“Aren’t you lucky,” Oliver nudges him with his shoulder.

“Not really,” Elio responds with a cheerless frown.  Oliver shakes his head and refocuses on the next reading. 

And so it continues, Oliver trying his hardest to enjoy the poetry amidst waves of irritation emanating from Elio.  Finally, because he can’t stand it any longer, Oliver takes Elio’s arm and says quietly, “If you’re so unhappy let’s get out of here then.”  Elio pulls his arm loose and glares at Oliver. Yet he rises and follows him out. 

On the street outside Elio is shaking his head.  “Sorry, it’s just I needed access to a book of vocal compositions set to the work of Byron and Shelley’s poetry.   The library here has one of the few copies and the house isn’t open tomorrow and now I’m screwed.”

“Ah,” says Oliver, “I couldn’t imagine why a poetry reading was making you so damn unhappy.  So you’re a student then?”

“Yes, I’m here for the spring semester. And if I don’t get a hold of this book I may seriously fuck up my grade for this class.”  Elio worries his lower lip as his eyes dart back and forth, anxiety bubbling forth. 

“Well first off, my name is Oliver. Obviously, I’m an American” he bends his knees a bit, trying to make eye contact with Elio, “and maybe I can help you out.”  He puts his large hand on Elio’s shoulder and his fingers cover a good portion of his upper back. 

Elio looks at him, forehead creased, almost spitting out the words, “How in the world could you help me   
Oliver?”  


“ Well, first off, what’s your name? Are you willing to divulge that much?”  

“Elio, Elio Perlman. I’m sorry, I’m just so damn frustrated and I don’t know you...and well, sorry.”

“No, I get it. Here’s the thing, my roommate at Princeton was a Rhodes Scholar and he ended up staying at Oxford. We are still close and he’s working on his doctorate on some arcane bit of the history of Medieval Music. He has online privileges to the Bodleian Music Library collection. Maybe what you are looking for is available digitally and he could help you out.”

At this moment, one of Oliver’s superpowers is revealed. Part of his charm and allure is the exceptional ability to solve problems. Almost at once, the focus of his yearning is indebted to him, shifting the balance of power in his favor.  And it is worth repeating, this is not done out of some conscious predatory forethought. It is pure instinct.

“That’s amazing. I’m looking for something published in London in 1834 by John Barnett.  It’s called  _ Lyric illustrations of the Modern Poets  _ .”

“Would you be more comfortable working in a cafe - do you want me to go get my laptop and meet you somewhere or…?” Oliver queries.

“Are you staying close by, Oliver?  I mean my place is a pigsty, I have two loud, obnoxious roommates so my apartment  is out of the question, I don’t want to impose but I highly doubt that public wifi would let me download any substantial files…” 

“Yes, I am right around the corner. It’s an Air BnB that I rented. It’s quite nice actually, damn good internet connection as well.  Let me just text Rob and see if he can help us.”

As Oliver is busy texting his old roommate, Elio mutters to himself, “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

Oliver looks up and says, “About what?” 

Elio’s face turns a deep shade of red when he realizes he has been heard.

“Oh, it’s just when I first saw you in the cafe, I thought you had to be some vapid model down from Milan for the weekend. Ivy league expat never crossed my mind.” 

Oliver smiles at him, the compliment, although obtuse, feels like a victory. 

“Boy are we lucky, Rob is doing research at the library as we speak, and they are only one hour ahead of us. He is going to log on and see if the volume you need is digitized.” 

Elio heaves his heavy laptop bag over his shoulder and looks up at Oliver. 

“Cmon, we’ll go to my place, I’ll make you a cup of tea and hopefully you can download what you need.” 

An hour later Elio has what he requires for his class and Oliver is completely smitten with this beguiling boy. 

“Thank you Oliver. I can’t tell you how much you saved my ass. I’m totally in your debt.” 

“Have dinner with me this week, then we’ll be even.” 

Elio gets it. This gorgeous god of a man is interested in him. He has no idea what to do, how he feels, his heart speeds up and his instinct is to flee. He manages to exit rather abruptly without giving Oliver his number or email address.  

Oliver’s only response to this roadblock is to contact the owner of the AirBnB and extend his stay by another month. 

Elio spends the better part of the week in a quandary.  Wavering between dropping a note off at Oliver’s apartment or forgetting that they ever met.  Truth be told, he is terrified by his attraction. He’s had crushes on both men and women, but this feels bigger somehow. 

Maybe because he knows Oliver is into him. 

It could have been harmless flirting right up to the point where an invite to dinner was proffered to “make things even.”  It didn’t feel tawdry exactly, more like I did you a solid favor, now I want to get into your pants. Wait, that is rather tawdry, isn’t it?  He vacillates, fantasizing about kissing him and at the same time pissed off that Oliver had an ulterior motive for helping him. In the end, he does what Elio always does: nothing.  Certainly, he’s the sexiest virgin this side of the Tiber river and it seems he will remain that for the near future.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver is still in self-imposed mourning.  Elio feels to him like a momentary diversion on the road to getting back to himself.  But the familiar feeling of wanting something just outside his reach recalls L and those heady first few months when the game was still fun. 

He is intrigued though and he figures he might as well stay in Rome. He loves the apartment, and there are a few places he still wants to see. 

 

Oh! Come on. Who is he kidding? 

When he closes his eyes all he can see are chestnut curls on pale skin, a russet pouty lower lip, and sage green sleepy eyes, he’s a fucking mess and won’t admit to himself.

Was he too aggressive? Did his actions seem predatory? Maybe Elio just isn’t interested. But he did compliment him, didn’t he? Maybe he misunderstood.  This second-guessing and insecurity is a completely novel experience for Oliver. Even with L, there was a strong sexual undercurrent, a mutual complicity. This feels totally one-sided.  Maybe. 

He shakes it off and rallies. This is what he does.  Today’s adventure involves tracking down some Caravaggio paintings in their natural environment. He’s determined to see them the way they were meant to be seen, not in the sterile confines of a museum with hordes of tourists and their selfie sticks consuming the experience like just another thing to be checked off. 

First stop Cerasi Chapel, a 10 minute walk from his place down  Via Babuino. He almost fears running into Elio again. He needs some distance to figure out how to deal with the obvious dismissal. 

Speaking of rejection, Caravaggio’s first two attempts at painting panels for the chapel were rejected. Oliver chuckles to himself, he’s in good company.

It’s amazing how much he has retained from his undergraduate art history classes at Princeton. He adored them, sitting in the dark being told wondrous tales about great works of art, even memorizing dates and titles didn’t bother him.  His professor, an irreverent Englishman with a cutting wit and an infinite well of stories kept them spellbound for countless hours. The classes served their purpose, instilling in him a lifetime of appreciation of art and architecture. 

Oliver is not a fan in general of religious paintings.  Most of them leave him cold. But Caravaggio! He imbues the figures with a light of their own; although some only see the darkness, the tenebroso.

Once he arrives at the chapel, he can't take his eyes away from the Conversion of St. Paul on the Way to Damascus. He is struck by the total capitulation of the beautiful man.  He has fallen off of his horse in the thrall of religious ecstasy and releases himself into divine submission. His legs are spread and his arms reach out with longing.  Oliver is excited by this image, and it feels all sorts of wrong being so stimulated in the confines of this ornate baroque chapel. One can imagine that Caravaggio’s intention was to stir the viewer. He recalls that his teacher regaled the class with stories of the master’s dalliances with young male prostitutes in Rome. 

In fact, his painting “Victorious Cupid” was reported by a 17th-century writer to be a portrait of Caravaggio's "boy, that laid with him". 

Without invitation, an image of Elio’s face, taut with arousal, submitting to Oliver's strong hand pressed against his shoulder fills his imagination.   He shakes his head, as if that would clear his mind of the provocative image. 

He leaves the chapel quickly, only glancing at the other Caravaggio painting on the opposite wall.  His next stop is the Galleria Borghese, about a twenty minute walk directly past the spot where he first saw Elio transcribing music on the lawn.  

When did this happen? When did become obsessed with this beautiful distant boy who he has only had 2 short interactions with?  It’s absurd. He feels it must be a delayed reaction to the loss of L, and his mind’s way of distracting itself. 

The 1611 Villa Borghese takes Oliver’s mind away from the enigma of young Elio Perlman.  Populated with Baroque sculptures and Renaissance paintings, it feels like a jewel box filled with treasure.  There are 6 Caravaggio paintings here, a virtual trove. He’s glad he booked a ticket ahead of time, the museum limits the number of visitors, and so the experience is not at all unpleasant. 

Oliver has decided on this visit to focus solely on the Caravaggios. He has the rare luxury of time (and money!) to come back as much as he wishes, to see the Bernini sculptures, the exquisite Titans, Raphael, and Rubens paintings. He makes his way to Room 8 to the six masterpieces.  There is the famous boy with the fruit, and the sick Bacchus, well known to first year art history students but Oliver is captivated by the beautiful portrait of John the Baptist and David with the head of Goliath. Both paintings feature the artist’s studio assistant ostensibly his lover, whom Caravaggio paints with an enigmatic expression. Oliver thinks that the artist had a thing for shoulders, male shoulders in particular, as they are featured in so many of his paintings. 

Once again, his mind wanders to Elio, perhaps because of John the Baptist’s expression; disdainful yet maybe slightly amused. He tenses his jaw, this preoccupation is getting him nowhere.  

He spends another half hour with the paintings, looking at both the  chiaroscuro (contrasting light and shadow) and the thing that sets Caravaggio above his peers: his psychological realism, the emotions that are so visible and relatable on his subject’s faces.  

Oliver walks back toward his apartment through the park, visually satiated and feeling a bit drained. He hasn’t eaten since a miniscule breakfast at 7am. It is mid-afternoon. He stops at the Vyta, an informal cafe located in the park.  A glass of wine and a small sandwich rejuvenate him, but he has had his fill of paintings. At the exit of the park, he spots a place called Heaven Villa Borghese, luxury gym he has heard about from one of his friends who frequently travels to Rome on business.  He stops in and is amazed by the facility. An indoor pool, spa, sauna, and cutting- edge workout equipment. This place rivals Equinox, his home gym in Beverly Hills. He signs up on the spot, getting a 2 month-long membership which he can’t wait to start using immediately. 

__________________

Elio ends up creating a wonderful presentation on the lyric interpretations of Keats’ and Shelley’s poetry based on the downloaded rare book that Oliver helped him obtain.  As he walks back to his apartment after getting his stellar evaluation, he starts to feel guilty for being so ungrateful and borderline rude. He was raised to be polite and respectful, and it occurs to him that he has been neither. 

A wave of shame washes over him; a nice (albeit distractingly handsome) stranger helps him out of a terrible bind and all he can do is beat a hasty retreat and hunker down hoping he doesn’t randomly bump into said kind stranger again. 

He resolves to leave Oliver a note to thank him and wonders if he is still even in Rome. 

 

_ Dear Oliver: _

_ It’s been a week since you saved my academic life basically, and I just wanted to drop off a note to say Thank you.  I ended up ace-ing the assignment and I couldn’t have done it without your help. I am really grateful. _

_ Thanks again.  Elio Perlman _

 

At the last minute, before he can overthink it, he adds his email address. 

 

[ EBPerlman@email.it ](mailto:EBPerlman@email.it)

 

He walks over to Oliver’s apartment, the street door to the communal hallway is propped open.

He quietly walks to the 2nd floor and slips the note under his door. 

On some level, Elio is ready. He knows this. Too many opportunities have been passed up, offers that would make you blush; come-ons too bold to be repeated.

He was sure he didn’t want to give it up the first time to some random encounter and yet waiting until he fell in love just seems ridiculous and somewhat improbable.  Falling in Love: that is what stops him short. 

And here we come to the crux of Elio’s dilemma, his wound as it were.  The idea of love feels completely suffocating to Elio. He can’t explain why he internally draws a comparison between death and being overpowered and obliterated by someone loving him. 

“Misattuned love” is what therapists call it.  The way a child perceives his initial experience of love.

His parents, Samuel and Annella, love Elio unconditionally.  That is a fact. They are a family that literally has no locks on the doors, who want to be completely and totally part of his life - no secrets between them. Children need secrets, they need to have an inner life they share with no one.  With loving parents who border on invasive, there is no privacy. Love feels like you are being choked. Although he has tried to repair them, Elio’s boundaries are almost nonexistent. 

With no boundaries, he feels like he will be overtaken by someone if he opens his heart, that he will be destroyed. 

 

And so you have it, two souls who have complimentary wounds, one who needs to learn that love with appropriate boundaries can be life-affirming not decimating. And the other soul who’s yearning for the elusive magic zephyr of unconditional love which, like heat waves on the horizon disappear as you approach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many Thanks to Mae428 for her Beta Skills!! Treat yourself to her stories, they are pure joy.  
> I will post some of the art work I refer to in this chapter on my tumblr. Come say hi!! Delongpaw.  
> Thanks for reading. I treasure every comment and kudos.


	4. Chapter 4

Working out always makes Oliver horny. It must be the mix of hormones and endorphins, the smell of sweat and exertion.  Maybe it’s all the gorgeous Italian men with their shirts off. The new gym is perfect. Not too crowded, expensive enough that the people working out are serious and not just there to socialize.  He is a bit of a snob when it comes to cars and, he didn’t realize it until now, gyms. It feels good to be turned on, his life’s been so tamped down lately. He makes his way back to his apartment feeling better than he has in 6 months. 

The note is lying in the middle of the floor when he returns. He reads it and his first instinct is to just write to Elio and say “grow up, meet me, and let’s both get this out of our systems.”  But that’s not the way the world works, and certainly not something that Elio would respond to. 

Oliver calls his favorite restaurant in Rome, Pierluigi and books a table for himself at 7:30.  He sends an email to Elio thanking him for the note and informing him that he will be dining at Pierluigi at 7:30 and Oliver would be happy to buy him dinner.  No obligation of course, and if not, he hopes to see him again in the neighborhood. That is all the effort he will make. He has not the will nor the patience to chase after a winsome boy who’s ambivalence is so evident.  He wants him, but lacks the fire that has driven him in the past. 

He showers and dresses in a crisp cotton shirt and well-tailored pants. He is to all who are lucky enough to see him, an absolute celestial being. 

The restaurant is busy, but they usher him directly to his seat.  He has a lovely table by the window in a quiet corner, set for one.  He doesn’t really think that Elio will show up. His instincts are well-honed enough to know when there is a chance of something happening.  This is not one of those times. 

He’s eaten here enough that the maitre d’ and the sommelier remember him.  They both come over and welcome him back. After discussing the menu and what he intends to eat, a bottle of wine is chosen. Oliver takes a small taste and nods appreciatively, encouraging the wine steward to pour him a generous glass.  Some fresh oysters are brought over and Oliver is happy and content. 

A few minutes later Oliver looks up just as Elio is entering the restaurant. He couldn’t be more surprised. As Elio glances around, Oliver raises his hand slightly and Elio approaches. 

Noticing the table is set for one, Elio creases his brow and says softly “I guess you didn’t expect me to show up?”

Oliver smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “Ah, but I’m glad you did.” The waiter pulls out Elio’s chair and sets a place for him in one swift move. 

Elio looks around appreciatively. “I’ve heard about this place, but never gotten to eat here. The food is supposed to be amazing.” 

“Now’s your chance.  You can try anything you want on the menu, order a few things, the fish is the best in Rome, these oysters are sublime.”

Elio considers the choices and settles on the sea scallops with Black Truffles and the seared yellow-fin Tuna. Oliver seems impressed with his choices and orders the Soppressata of Wild Octopus and the Vermicelli Pasta with Clams and Mullet Bottarga. 

“You have to share the Octopus with me, Elio, it’s out of this world.”  

Oliver is so warm and relaxed it’s almost inconceivable to Elio. How does someone go through life this open and comfortable? He isn’t this at ease with people he’s known for years. 

“I’m glad you left me that note, Elio.  Tell me about your assignment and what your teacher said.”

It’s easy for Elio to talk about music and school and scholarly things. He immediately launches into how the nexus of poetry and music has always fascinated him and the assignment centered on 19th century Romanticism and its influence on art, architecture, and music.  Since Oliver can hold his own on most any topic, their conversation is potent and wide-ranging. 

Elio is really enjoying himself, the wine is amazing and the food - well, there are almost no words to describe it, maybe one of the best meals he has ever had. 

At the end of dinner, as they are both sipping their espressos, continuing to talk,  Oliver’s thumb brushes over Elio’s knuckles. It is a very intentional move on Oliver’s part. He wants to gauge Elio’s reaction.  Elio’s eyes flick up to Oliver’s, his brow furrowing slightly. Oliver holds his gaze. “I’m glad you decided to come, Elio. I really enjoyed this evening with you. I hope we can spend some more time together.” 

“I don’t know, I mean…” Elio bites his lower lip, he can’t continue his sentence. 

Oliver brings his chair slightly closer, moving to the edge of his seat, he leans in. 

“What do you want, Elio?” 

Elio pulls back. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“I think it was a pretty direct question.  What do you want?” 

Elio lets out a deep sigh.  “It’s funny you should ask me that.” He is stalling for time, internally debating what he should say, but it’s Elio, and the truth always comes out, sometimes not as gracefully as he would like. 

“I have been asking myself the same question for the last week. Ever since you asked me to dinner.”  

Oliver doesn’t say anything. Just looks at him with those diaphanous blue eyes, staring directly at him, waiting it seems, for the answer that will set a course for the night? A week? A month?

“I want things, Oliver, but I don’t want it to get complicated, you know, messy with feelings and things.”  He pauses, Oliver continues to look at him, his head slightly tilted to the side now, blue eyes still regarding him intently. “There is a complication however; I have no experience with such things, literally no experience.” 

_ Ah, thinks Oliver, either Elio’s never been with a man, or maybe with anyone. He’s fucking terrified.  _

Two distinct thoughts pass through Oliver’s mind, the first being,  _ oh God, this is not something I want to deal with. _ The second being pure unadulterated lust, a thirst so overpowering it threatens his well-mannered composure. 

The thirst wins out. 

Oliver signals the waiter for a check, all the while not responding to Elio’s confession. 

Elio is uncomfortable, regretting his disclosure, wishing he could disappear right through the floor. 

When the bill is settled, Oliver stands and pulls back Elio’s chair for him.  He walks by his side, letting Elio exit the restaurant in front of him, his hand guiding the small of his back.

“It’s a half hour walk back to our neighborhood, are you okay with that or do you want me to get a taxi?”

“No, a walk would be fine actually.”  

They fall into step, silently making their way through cobblestone streets and narrow alleyways. 

Finally, Oliver speaks.  “What are these uncomplicated things you want, Elio?” 

“I want experience, but I want it to stay simple...just basic, I don’t know. I don’t know where to begin or what to do, I want you to instruct me, but do it without sentiment I guess.”

“So you want sex without love then. And you are a virgin so you need to be handled with care, is that what you are telling me?”

“Yes, but why does it sound clinical and cold when you repeat it back to me?  

“I don’t know about clinical, Elio, but it is a little jaded. You are asking for me to take something from you that can only be given once, to one person, with the caveat of no feelings allowed on either side I’m assuming.   I’m not a machine. Even if I am not in love with someone, I still have feelings for them, I still care about them.”

“Well, yes I know that. It’s just love. That’s what I don’t want. All the obligations and things that go along with that.”   Elio tosses his curls vehemently. “I don’t want it.”

Oliver studies him and wonders what could have possibly happened that even just the word love causes Elio to become agitated and uncomfortable. 

“I need to think about this. I’ve never entered into something with so many stipulations before. But I have to admit. It’s intriguing to know exactly what’s expected of me. You would have to trust me, Elio, and that’s something that is earned over time.  I think that’s our biggest hurdle.”

“I do. I mean, I’m getting there. You have been completely upfront with me since I met you. I have no reason not to trust you, but you’re right. Trust is key.” 

They continue walking and right before they enter the piazza that leads to Elio’s shared apartment, Oliver puts his hand on Elio’s arm and holds him against the stone wall. 

“I’m going to kiss you now, Elio. You don’t need to do anything. Just slightly open up for me, that’s right, good boy.”  Oliver leans in and tenderly presses his mouth to Elio’s parted lips. His tongue gently seeking entry. He feels Elio push toward him but Oliver pulls away. “I said you don’t need to do anything. Do you understand?” Elio leans back against wall, eyelids heavy with desire, and shakes his head affirmatively. “Yes sorry...I just..” Oliver shuts him up with another kiss that leaves Elio trembling with want.  

When Oliver pulls away, he brushes the curls back on Elio’s forehead. 

“Good night, Elio. Sweet Dreams. You are in control. Email me when you want to see me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Would love to hear what you think. Come say hi on tumblr..Delongpaw


	5. Chapter 5

Somehow, Elio makes it back to his apartment. His legs are jelly.  He feels like his extremities are not getting enough blood, his arms are numb and his fingers are tingling. What an odd response to a kiss. 

When his friends back in Milan tease him for still being a virgin he defends himself by saying he is a sapiosexual, and he has yet to meet someone that is smart enough to turn him on.  This is only partially true. Elio is turned on by intelligence but he is also not immune to beauty. 

He replays the evening, marveling at Oliver’s ease in everything, from ordering food to discussing the subtle differences between what is categorized as Gothic versus Romantic in literature, and how that plays out in architecture and painting.  Oliver is a good listener, and asks leading questions that make Elio feel like what he thinks matters. 

And, as he thinks about the time they spent together, he realizes how expertly he’s been seduced. Even to the point where he asks for what he wants sexually, making himself completely vulnerable and essentially at Oliver’s mercy, all the while maintaining the illusion that Elio is in control.  

Oh! Elio is way out of his league here.  Does he just go with it? He has an out. All he has to do is just not email Oliver and it’s done.  

Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. 

That kiss. Jesus, that kiss. He’s hard just thinking about it.  It was everything, Oliver’s smell, his taste, his demands, it’s just what Elio needs, and he knows it.  He takes matters into his own hands that night. But now, it’s not some Marvel superhero or a leather- clad Irene Adler that he focuses his mind’s eye on.  It’s a tall blond American with a deep voice and dancing blue eyes. 

He waits a few days to email Oliver because that’s just Elio.  He’s not playing a game, he just wants the email to be perfect. But what he doesn’t know is that in his own way he is playing Oliver like a fiddle. 

_ Oliver. I’ve decided you can have my phone number.  Please text me so I have yours. I prefer to communicate via text, I just really hate talking on the phone unless it’s necessary.  I hope that’s ok.  _

_ (39) if you are still using your American sim card,  373-4221. _

_ Elio.  _

Oliver doesn’t fuck around.  When he gets the email he texts Elio immediately.

_ Hi. Here’s my number. I have an Italian sim card, it’s a Rome number.  Let me know when you want to see me.  _

He’s thrown the ball back in Elio’s court.   

Elio doesn’t want to seem too anxious, but he’s so distracted thinking about Oliver and that damn kiss and all the possibilities. 

He texts Oliver and tells him that he has to attend a performance that night of a relatively obscure concerto that was written in Rome in 1921, and it’s probably going to suck, but he is welcome to come along if he wants. 

Oliver responds:   _ How could I pass up an offer like that? _

They meet at the Piazza di Spagna, only 5 minutes from their respective apartments. 

Elio mentions that a bus comes by every 6 minutes or so, and starts walking to the bus stop. Oliver shakes his head in minor disbelief, flags down a taxi, and holds the door open for Elio.  They make it to the venue in 7 minutes. Time enough for a glass of wine. 

“So tell me about this music we are going to hear tonight, Elio.”

“The class I am taking is all about inspiration and creation and you remember that book that you helped me get?” Oliver nods. “Well, that was about lyrical inspiration from Romantic Poetry. This composer, Ottorino Respighi, was inspired by Gregorian Chants for this concerto, so one form of music inspired by another. And he was composing in the twenties, so he falls under the heading of a 20th Century Classical composer, but my teacher feels he is an early modernist.” 

Elio shines when he speaks about something he is confident in, his unguarded enthusiasm is like watching a flower blossom.  Oliver is enchanted by his passion. 

They find seats and listen to the music.  It is a lovely piece. At times, a lush cinematic score, in other parts a sweet love poem, but try as he may, Oliver can’t hear the influence of Gregorian Chants.  He closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him. The last few minutes build to a thundering crescendo and Oliver no longer keeps his eyes shut. He glances over at Elio and he is lost in the music, eyes glazed over, he seems to be inhaling the notes and savoring them. 

They are both smiling and clapping when it finishes. 

“Wow. That didn’t suck. I think Respighi might just be underappreciated,” Elio says with a mix of wonder and evident confusion. “I’m sort of blown away.” 

They start to walk back toward the Piazza. Elio still in a music-induced daze. He almost trips on some broken cobblestones and Oliver grabs his elbow just in time. Oliver doesn’t let go, his hand traveling down Elio’s arm to hold his hand. 

Elio smiles down at the ground, a heated blush crawling up his neck. 

“Will you come back to the apartment?  I have some really nice port wine and chocolate from  Quetzalcoatl. It’s supposed to be the best in Rome.” 

Elio looks up at Oliver and with a twist to his mouth he says, “You know, I was just going to go home and read, but your offer of chocolate really tempts me.” 

Oliver rubs his hands together and in a mock-sinister voice says, “Ah good, my evil plan is working: first the chocolate -  then a foot rub!” Elio playfully elbows him and laughs.    
Finally Elio is relaxing, starting to feel a bit more comfortable. 

They make their way up the stairs and into Oliver’s open and airy apartment.  The last time Elio was there, he was too preoccupied with downloading the book he needed and getting his assignment done.  Now, he can really take the time and look around. 

The apartment is only a one bedroom but the inside space is equally matched with outside space. A huge terrace with a dining table and comfortable chairs look out over the neighborhood. Elio can even make out the roof of his music school, the Conservatorio Santa Cecilia.  The living room has an overstuffed couch, huge flat screen television and, according to Oliver, some really good Bluetooth speakers.

As Elio is looking around, Oliver asks him if he would like to try some port.  “This particular one is especially good with chocolate,” he says as he pours two generous glasses.  Elio is standing by the open door looking on to the terrace. He is captivated by the view of the city, lights twinkling, the street noise pleasantly dulled by their elevation. Oliver clinks his glass against Elio’s.  “To Roma.” 

“Salute,” Elio replies. 

“Come. Have some of this chocolate.”

Elio sits on the plush, comfortable couch and sinks into the down cushions. 

_ Jesus, this kid is gonna be the death of me Oliver thinks. All this beauty, intelligence, and unplucked sensuality in one package, how I can not want him? God I want him.  _

“Close your eyes. I’ve been told that you get the most pleasure out of chocolate when you can just focus completely on the experience of it on your tongue.” 

Elio quirks his mouth in a wry smile and says, “Seriously?”     
“Yes, yes. Just try it once for me. You don’t have to eat the whole piece, just close your eyes and take a bite.” 

“Ok, whatever Oliver.”  Elio closes his eyes as Oliver places a champagne truffle on his lips. His tongue sneaks out and captures the chocolate, pulling it into his mouth. Oliver is unprepared for the groan Elio produces. “Oh God. That’s amaaaaazing.”  Elio takes a sip of his wine and looks up at Oliver, “Wow that was just...” 

“Ah you ate the whole thing, I wanted some of it,” Oliver responds in mock frustration. “Maybe there’s still a taste of it on your sweet mouth. Can I see?”  Elio nods his consent and closes his eyes again. Oliver presses him back into the couch as his tongue sweeps across Elio’s lips. Prepared for the gentle assault, Elio relaxes into it and opens his mouth. Their kiss is slow and languid. Oliver is insistent but never overpowering, mindful of Elio’s inexperience. Elio is a bit overanxious in returning the kiss. The enthusiasm is appreciated, however. 

Oliver pulls away and looks at him smiling. 

“I would like some more,” Elio says softly.  

“Chocolate or kisses?”

“Both please.”

“How about a milk chocolate Buddha filled with salted caramel?” Oliver plucks the confection from the box and bites a small corner off.  “Man, that’s good. Here, open up. He drips the sweet-salty filling on Elio’s tongue, making sure to spill a few drops on his lips, and then pops the rest of the candy into his own mouth.

Oliver takes the pad of his thumb and rubs it across Elio’s plump bottom lip and sucks his finger. 

Elio, getting the hang of this game, licks his bottom lip slowly while looking up at Oliver through his curls. Now it’s Oliver’s turn to emit a soft groan before he dives in for another kiss.

“One more and that’s it,” Elio says, grabbing a dark chocolate puff from the box. “I’ll eat it, and then you guess what it is.”  He takes a sip of port, and then pops the sweet in his mouth. Oliver without hesitation traces the taste of Lavender infused ganache from his lips. 

Time evaporates. Is it 20 minutes or two hours they spend on the couch savoring each other?  At one point, Oliver’s mouth travels away from Elio’s lips down to where his neck meets his shoulder. Oliver buries his face there and inhales deeply. 

Elio thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever experienced. If he wasn’t rock hard before, he certainly is now. He rolls his head back and exposes himself even more fully to Oliver’s roaming mouth. 

He’s a jumble of nerve endings and the  _ want  _ is as overpowering as anything he has ever felt. 

Oliver, either by design or instinct pulls back away from Elio. His intention, if he can refocus on that, was to have Elio be more comfortable with him. This has proceeded much more quickly and intensely then he had foreseen.  He must, he feels, above all, remember Elio’s mandate of ‘no feelings’ and not get too invested in whatever this is. 

“Ahhhh,” says Oliver, straightening his now exceedingly tight jeans, and scooting away from Elio on the couch. Elio responding by trying to pull Oliver back closer to him. 

“Stop.” This comes out a bit more forceful than Oliver intends and Elio’s eyes widen.  “I need to stop.” He stands up and walks away from the couch, away from Elio.

“Listen. Elio this has been great. I just don’t want to get too carried away.”

“But what if I want you to get carried away?” Elio says looking up at him with his terribly sexy green eyes, now wide with apprehension. 

“You don’t get to make that call Elio. Consent goes both ways.”

Elio thinks about what he says, and yes it makes sense but he is so worked up it doesn’t seem fair.

Elio encountering healthy boundaries within an intimate relationship is a completely new and different experience.  He doesn’t know exactly what this is but it doesn’t feel comfortable. 

“If this,” and Oliver waves his hands between the two of them, “is gonna work out the way you want it to, you are going to have to trust me.  And I’ll tell you this now, there will be times when your wishes will be tested in a much more profound way.” 

He looks down at Elio with a serene but unreadable expression. 

“As always, if you want to see me again just text me.”

_ Elio wonders what he did wrong.  How did it all go south so quickly? _

Sometimes, Elio, it’s not just about you.

 

Oliver extends his hand and helps pulls him off the couch.  He squeezes his shoulders to reassure him. As he walks him to the door, Oliver asks him for a goodnight hug. 

“I loved the concert, thank you for introducing me to  Respighi.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for the chocolate.”

And with that, Elio walks down the stairs, head bowed, into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Mae428 for her help with grammar and reality checks, both are invaluable. What a great fandom we have. So many talented writers!  
> Find me on tumblr at least for a bit and then we'll see...as always I love hearing what you think. I am enjoying the process of writing this so much. Thanks for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

  


Poor Elio.  He is distraught. He replays the entire evening wondering where he screwed up. Why did Oliver pull back and almost kick him out of his apartment?  He almost feels like crying. It’s like he had a taste of heaven (literally) and it was pulled away from him. 

He wonders if Oliver is playing some weird game, and he just hasn’t figured out the rules.  

  


To Elio, it’s rejection plain and simple.  He lets himself into his shared flat, waves a cursory hello to his roommates who are playing Fortnite or some shit, and goes into his room. His anxiety level could really spin up right now if he let it.  He thinks about something his mother always says; Go to sleep, everything seems less complicated in the morning...it will sort itself out. Usually, he tries desperately to block out his inner parent, but tonight he gets the logic.

  


He takes a shower, because he can smell Oliver on himself and it’s the smell of dismissal. He scrubs himself, replacing the scent of Oliver’s rich cologne with the clean but non-descript smell of the generic soap the boys use in their shared flat.  The hot shower helps and he drifts off quickly when he crawls into bed. 

  


He does feel better when he wakes up and the rich coffee and Nutella brioche he gets at  Il Baretto revives him a bit more.  As he walks to school, in the inherent clarity of the morning, he realizes that this whole experiment or whatever it is, does boil down to one thing: trust. He has to trust Oliver. There must be a reason he put the brakes on.  Elio knows he can’t let his overwhelming desire to rid himself of his virginity take over all logic. He feels better, more centered. He has no idea when he will text Oliver again. It just feels like too much right now. 

  


Oliver. 

  


In a way, Oliver  _ is _ playing a game. At first, he saw Elio as a lovely little distraction. But he has a slight suspicion that there might be more there.   He isn’t sure he can handle this no feelings thing and last night was a test to see how it sits with him. As the evening progressed he realized that he was really, really into it and somewhat out of control, and so he put a stop to it.  

Our friend Oliver may have a few issues, but boundaries are not one of them.   He does realize, however, that his sudden withdrawal is very likely to be misinterpreted by Elio.  

This thought stays with him through the night and his morning coffee. However, being Oliver comes with it a certain innate conceit, and so he figures if Elio wants Oliver to launch his sexual awakening, Elio has to learn to defer to him. 

  


He sits down at his computer to send out a few emails.  He thanks his friend Rob for helping Elio out and inquires as to how his studies are going. He sees an email from Alicia, his younger sister. 

She has an endearing habit of submitting wacky ideas for potential investments/business proposals to him on a weekly basis. He loves them. They are all a disaster, but it is a benign way for them to keep in touch.  Her latest makes him laugh out loud. She wants to have a network of Jewish grandmothers around the world making chicken soup with Matzo balls for delivery. “So,” she writes, “if you had a sick friend in Akron Ohio, or  Seven Oaks UK, you call the service and have hot soup delivered.” 

He writes back saying “Two words Alicia, QUALITY CONTROL.” He hates to dash her hopes but he does it on a weekly basis, so maybe she’s used to it by now.  He does love the idea though, to help someone you love who is not feeling well, by sending over some homemade Jewish Penicillin in the form of chicken soup. 

  


No email or texts from Elio. A little pang of disappointment, but it’s expected. 

  


Today, his plans include a visit to Centrale Montemartini, a collection of classical sculptures set against the backdrop of a shuttered power plant. He’s always been an ardent fan of juxtaposition, and this seems like it would be right up his alley.  

  


He loves it.  The contrast of ancient white marble at odds with the hulking disused machines of the early industrial age stirs him.  An unconventional act of genius decided these would make an evocative display and they were correct. Large against small, powerful versus delicate, it immediately recalls his hand around Elio’s wrist, pressing him against the couch cushions, taking what he wanted from his succulent mouth. And, he’s done it again, become distracted by the very thing he needs to distance himself from.  

  


There is some beautiful work here. Roman copies of Greek statuary, mosaics found below the streets of Rome, from villas long gone, all displayed in the most unlikely of settings.  

  


When Oliver has had his fill, he strolls out looking for a bite to eat. His phone pings with a text.  It’s from Elio. He decides not to read it until he is seated with some Roman pizza and a glass of wine.  He spies a restaurant called ‘Megabites’ just around the corner from the museum. It’s perfect. A bright, airy space with a foodie menu that is right in line with Oliver’s idea of the perfect lunch.  After ordering, he glances at his phone. 

  


Elio:  _ You must have your reasons for ending last night so abruptly. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.  _

  


And then:

  


_ Do I need to come up with an excuse to see you again? _

  


Oliver replies immediately: 

  


Oliver:  _ You don’t need an excuse Elio. Ever. Time and place please.  _

  


Elio: _  8pm your place. _

  


Oliver: _ See you then. _

  


After lunch, Oliver takes a cab home, grabs his bag and makes his way to the gym for a workout. He inquires as to the availability of post-workout massage and with luck they have a cancellation.  He pushes hard, warming up with stretches, a two-mile run on the treadmill, and a 45-minute workout with free weights. He is pleasantly drained as he showers and prepares for his massage. 

  


The masseur makes his way to the locker room and guides Oliver to the private spa area. He is a slight but muscular man, blond, fair-skinned but with an astonishingly graceful presence. Oliver wonders if he will be able to deliver a worthwhile massage. He introduces himself, “ Ciao, mi chiamo Philip.”  

“Oh uh, Oliver, Ciao.”  

“Would you rather English?”

“I’m not much for talking actually, during a massage.”

“Ah, perfectly fine. I understand.”

Oliver lays flat on the table, a towel draped around his waist. Philip removes the towel and replaces it with a white linen sheet. 

“Any areas that need special attention, sir?”

“Neck and shoulders always. Other than that, no.”

And...he’s amazing. Oliver has had many, many massages, and he cannot in recent memory remember one so perfect. It feels like Philip has a second sense that sends him directly to places on Oliver’s body that need relief. The pressure is intense but never too much. The man has a gift. He uses his entire hand, arm, body strength to dig deep into Oliver’s muscles, releasing stored tension he didn’t know he was holding on to. It’s extraordinary. 

  


55 blissful minutes. When it’s over, Oliver feels like he has no body. He is a floating entity. He stays in this state for a full 30 seconds, just hovering, retaining full consciousness but not being confined to the physical.  It is wonderous, a bit terrifying, certainly a singular experience. He takes a deep breath and settles back in, rolling on his side to gaze up at the gift that is Philip. 

He manages to croak, “That was remarkable. Thank you so much.” 

Philip grins at him, and touches his shoulder. 

Oliver has the presence of mind to ask Philip to leave his card.  

He lies on the table for at least ten minutes.  Propriety means that he eventually has to leave, but it goes against his instincts. He feels fileted in the best sense of the word.  Eventually, he dresses and glides home but not before leaving an exceedingly generous tip for Philip. Falling into bed, he sleeps for two hours; dreamless, solid, rejuvenating sleep.

  


The massage oil still forming a slight sheen on his body, he gets up to take another shower and thinks about Elio’s impending visit.  The pace, the calculation involved, the conscious decision to keep an emotional distance is so foreign and discomforting to him, but Oliver feels he can learn something from this. He’s not quite sure what at this point. 

  


He makes sure he has some beer on ice, and a bit of food if Elio is hungry.  

This is about Elio after all. 

Keep telling yourself that Oliver. 

  


He dresses all in black.  A tight black t-shirt, obscenely tight black jeans, and his latest indulgence: a pair of black Louboutin Trapman boots.  He is putting on a costume and assuming a role. Teacher? Dom? Lover? No, not lover. Elio has made  _ that  _ clear.  Oliver centers himself, clears his mind, and uses the quiet to literally release his own desire and focus completely on Elio.  

  


At precisely 8, there is a knock on the door.  Elio stands in the threshold, visibly nervous, peering up at Oliver through his unruly bangs, his green eyes turned down at the corners, looking a bit sad. Or is it scared?  

“Come in, Elio. Are you thirsty? Would you like a beer? Some water?”

“A glass of water would be great, thank you,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the couch.

Oliver returns with two glasses of water. 

“Listen, Elio. I apologize for putting the brakes on last night. It’s just that things got away from me and that’s not the way I wanted the evening to go.”

“How did you want it to go? I mean, I thought it was pretty great right up until you pulled back.”

“It was great. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I did too.  I just didn’t want you to take all my chocolate.” 

  


Oliver is deflecting now because he can’t let Elio know how out of control he felt.  He has to shift the power dynamic back without being cruel. Elio lets it go, knowing on some level what is taking place. It’s too awkward to call it out. 

  


“I need to say a few things before we go any further.  I don’t want to do any formal ‘safe words’ or anything, but above all, I want you to know that you can stop anything we are doing by just saying stop. You can also say slow down or no, and I will immediately stop whatever is going on. Do you understand?” 

Elio shakes his head affirmatively. 

  


“I never want you to feel unsafe, or unhappy about what we are doing together. Do you promise? Don’t do things just to please me if they don’t sit right with you. I will bring this up every single time I see you, I really mean it.”

  


Elio nods and smiles to himself.

  


“Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“I was just thinking that I couldn’t wait for you to stop talking so that maybe you would kiss me.”

Oliver shakes his head, and smiles broadly.

  


“Hold that thought, but no. Do me a favor. Stand up. Right. Ok, walk with me to my bedroom.”

There is a beautiful large bedroom where Elio sees a king sized bed, two side tables, a TV mounted on the wall, and an ensuite bathroom, all decorated in about 14 different shades of white. Subtle artwork on the walls and a luxurious silky duvet on the bed make the room seem like a pristine paradise.   On the back of the bathroom door is a full-length mirror. 

Oliver stands with Elio in front of the mirror. He is positioned behind him and they both gaze at their shared reflection. 

Oliver places his hands on the top of Elio’s arms and squeezes them, sort of like a half hug. He then asks Elio to take off his sweater. Elio complies. They both remain standing in front of the mirror. Oliver’s eyes sweep the length of Elio’s body, stopping at his eyes, he nods his head silently instructing Elio to remove his t-shirt. Elio does with no hesitation. Oliver presses his chest against Elio’s naked back putting his hands on Elio’s hips, still gazing at his face in the mirror. He starts to unbuckle Elio’s jeans, never losing eye contact in the mirror, waiting for the ok, or some sort of acknowledgment. It comes in the form of a lower lip bite and a slight nod.

Elio, flawless, his smooth, creamy torso on display 

And there it is. The contrast. The juxtaposition that inflames Oliver so much.  Elio in his boxers, trembling, Oliver in control, fully dressed in black, outlining him.  Oliver puts his outstretched palm across Elio’s belly and just holds it there. Their eyes catch in the mirror again. Elio takes a deep breath and tries desperately to relax. Oliver places a single kiss where his neck meets his shoulder, and Elio shudders.  Oliver’s warm palm travels across Elio’s chest, brushing across his nipples, caressing his prominent clavicle with his thumb. A kiss is placed on the other shoulder. 

  


Elio is so turned on he feels like crawling out of his own skin.  More than anything he wants to turn around and throw his arms around Oliver and kiss him with abandon. But he knows, that is not how this is to be. If last night taught him anything, it’s that restraint will eventually get him what he wants.  Another deep breath and Elio waits to see what Oliver will do. His hand moves down Elio’s body, warm, caressing his chest, dragging his fingernails over his navel. His thumb running back and forth along the elastic line of his shorts.

Elio gasps when Oliver drags his knuckles over the front of his boxers grazing his cock.  On the second pass, Oliver’s hand presses down against the hardness.

“Stay still, Elio,” Oliver whispers into his neck, Oliver rubbing his thumb up and down Elio’s length through the cotton. 

“Does this feel good. Elio?”

“Yes, ummmm.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. So okay.”

Oliver continues to rub him along the thin cotton of his boxer shorts. He feels Elio tense up and he slows down almost to the point of stopping.

“Don’t come, Elio. It’s not the right time.  Understand?”

Elio nods and takes a stuttering breath.  

“Can I take your shorts off Elio?”

He looks at Oliver in the mirror and nods. 

Oliver divests him of the last of his clothing, cupping his small firm ass on the way down. 

Elio steps out of the shorts looking up at Oliver in the mirror, now completely unshielded and exposed.

Oliver takes his hand and they walk to the foot of the bed, away from the mirror. 

Elio is glorious, more perfect than a Caravaggio rendering; paler, smoother than Greek statuary. Oliver’s gaze burns him, feasting on every freckle, admiring every angled line, resting on his perfect, erect cock. Oliver licks his lips. 

  


“Now Elio, here is your first assignment. Remember what feels good in the next few minutes because you will have to do exactly the same thing for me the next time you see me. Understand?”  Elio nods, a bit confused but still a willing pupil all the same. 

Oliver presses Elio against the end of the bed so he sits, and Oliver lowers himself, so he is at Elio’s feet. And there is the kiss that Elio so desperately wanted, but it is placed on the head of his cock.   Oliver’s warm mouth envelops him, lips forming a tight ring of pleasure that courses through Elio in a jolt. 

A long, low, “Fuuuuuck,” escapes his mouth. He has never felt anything like this in his life. Oliver’s tongue licks him from base to tip, and his hands stroke his inner thighs. Elio throws his head back and squeezes his eyes tightly closed, trying not to explode, literally, in Oliver’s face. 

Oliver stops.

“Too much?”

“No, God, I don’t know...just fuck…”

Elio is basically incoherent. Oliver pushes his nose in between his thigh  and penis and licks a stripe around the base, savoring his musky scent, inhaling his essence. Oliver flattens his tongue and presses it against the underside of Elio ‘s cock, sharpening it to a point, pressing against the ridge.  Oliver can see that Elio is close. He spits in his hand and finishes him off, expertly guiding him through his climax, whispering into his neck, “Yes, come for me baby boy, give it all to me Elio, yes, that’s it…”

Elio flops backward on the bed, spent. 

  


Oliver goes to the bathroom and comes back with a warm moist towel. He tends gently to Elio, wiping him down, and toweling off his hand.  

  


Now is the part that will be tricky for our Oliver. Always one to enjoy a bit of post orgasm cuddling, he is still hard, and knows it’s not the right time to take care of his own needs.  He is also mindful of Elio’s directive. Still, he wants to check in and make sure all is well. He lays on his side, fully clothed, next to Elio, and rubs his nose in his slightly sweaty neck.  “Are you ok?”

Elio, eyes still closed, smiles.  

“Yeah.”

“Good. When you can, get dressed, and we can have a beer on the porch.”

He leaves Elio, spent, on the bed. 

  


This reminds him of earlier that afternoon, after his massage, that was a transaction, a service. Where does one draw the line? 

Ah, it does get blurry when on the other side of the line is a beautiful boy, with trusting green eyes and an issue with love. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so many thanks for Mae428 who doesn't mock me for my underuse of commas and hyphens and my over use of semi colons.   
> Here is an example of the juxtaposition that really got Oliver going....[](<a%20href=)">Link text


	7. Chapter 7

 

Elio doesn’t want to sit on the porch with a beer.  He wants to lie in Oliver’s bed. He wants Oliver there, holding him, kissing him, licking his neck. He wants to smell him, to taste him, he wants to feel his warmth seeping through his entire body.  He lies in bed pretending that Oliver is coming back, not waiting for him with a cold beer and even colder detachment. 

Elio understands that he made this a condition of their coupling. He realizes that he put the rules in place. He also had no idea that he would want more.  And what is more? More time? More touch? More reciprocity? When he gets up he wonders if this empty achy feeling is worse than the feelings he was trying to avoid. He’s so mad at himself. What the fuck was he thinking?  Did he honestly believe that the only way he could have this beautiful man was if he put himself off limits emotionally?

God, his edicts only illustrate how unprepared and immature he is. His self-loathing oozes out of every pore as he dresses and joins Oliver on the deck. 

Oliver’s back is toward him as he silently approaches. He moves slightly to the right of him and catches a glimpse of his furrowed brow and scowling mouth. 

Little does he know that our Oliver is having parallel thoughts to his: wondering how the hell he could have agreed to this setup when it will only lead to mutual destruction and heartbreak.  At this moment, Oliver is debating whether he is willing to end it now, to avoid the inevitable hurt, or continue as a test for himself, seeing if he can, indeed, disconnect his growing feelings for Elio from the physical component. 

“Hi. Um, that was amazing. Thank you?”  Elio says shyly, wondering what exactly is appropriate in a moment like this.  There is no rule book, of that he is certain. 

Oliver quickly replaces his frown with a smile for Elio. “Yes, you were very well behaved for me. I liked that. You have a beautiful body. Watching you come was splendid. I think I should thank you.”

“But I’m skinny and pale, not like you, not a freaking god.” Elio stammers and blushes.  He hates undeserved compliments. It feels so false and disingenuous. 

“Elio. I have a certain aesthetic. Don’t assume all people have the same standard of beauty. If you take one thing away from this, know that you are absolute perfection, just the way you are.  It’s that trust thing again. I won’t ever say something to you that I don’t believe, you have my word.”

That, right there is a revelation to Elio. Somewhere deep inside of himself, his aversion to his own physical appearance is lessened. If he can be attractive to someone like Oliver, then maybe he’s not so repugnant.    

Elio sits at one end of the rustic wooden table and sips his beer. 

“I’m afraid the next time we’re together I will disappoint you.  I mean, that was amazing.”

“I firmly believe that there’s a learning curve in everything. What you lack in skill you will make up for with enthusiasm, I’m sure. Don’t forget. I’ve had plenty of time and experience to develop my talents.”

Ow.   What was meant as a throwaway line feels like a blow to Elio’s solar plexus.  He involuntarily caves in on himself a bit. Oliver notices, but doesn’t acknowledge it.  It does register with him that maybe this no feelings thing isn’t easy for Elio either. 

Eventually, Elio makes a move to leave, secretly wishing Oliver would ask him to spend the night. But who is he kidding, that’s not going to happen. 

“I have a super busy week this week but I’ll text you when I know what my schedule is.  What’s going on with you?” Elio asks. 

“This and that. But Elio, just say the word. I will move things around for you.” Oliver stands to walk Elio to the door.   Oliver holds Elio’s cheek in his hand and puts a soft lingering kiss on his mouth. 

“Bye, Elio. Text me soon, yes?” 

Elio nods, graces Oliver with a small smile and heads down the stairs. 

Elio, being the diligent student that he is, retreats to his room and thoroughly researches blowjobs. He looks at porn, he reads online manuals, he anonymously messages gay advice websites, leaving no stone unturned.  After all of that, he comes to the conclusion that only experience will serve as the best teacher, and he thinks he has the best one on hold for private lessons. 

He finds, after thinking about it, that his motivation for wanting to excel is to please Oliver. Every single time Oliver drops a comment like “you were so good for me” or  “what a good boy you are” a frisson of arousal courses through him. This is so contrary to his nature, or at least the one he presents to the world. He shows up like a rebel, bucking authority with his intellect and attitude.   Never mean or intentionally hurtful, he uses his wit and insight to silence those who make things difficult for him. He has always used his gifts to instill distance when people want things from him. To become aroused by pleasing a virtual stranger, a dominant controlling one, at that, is a mystery to him yet he’s never been so powerfully turned on. When he is near Oliver it’s like every nerve ending is at full attention. And it’s only gotten more and more intense with every meeting. Just thinking about being on his knees for him has Elio humming with anticipation.  Giving up control with Oliver feels safe in a way that he has never known. Intellectually, the reason why eludes him, logic and understanding seem to evaporate when he is in Oliver’s presence. It’s a relief. He can stop thinking and just be.

The next day it’s sunny and beautiful and Elio refuses to sequester himself in the apartment any longer.  He is tired of fruitlessly trying to block out the inane distractions imposed on him by his neanderthal roommates. 

He gathers his notebook and headphones, puts his blanket in his backpack, and makes his way to the Park Villa Borghese.  Midterms are coming up and he has a shit load of studying to do. He lays his blanket out in his usual spot, with a view of the lake and the  Temple of Aesculapius.

The spring sunshine is warm on his back. He props himself up on his elbows and dives into his  _ Influences and Inspiration  _ textbook, taking notes and trying to guess what will be on the midterm.

After a while, a long shadow disrupts his ability to see the page and he looks up to find Oliver towering over him. 

Not just run of the mill gorgeous Oliver, a slick, sweaty, panting Oliver, in running shorts and a body -hugging soaked t-shirt. 

“Hey, I just finished my run, mind if I join you for a bit?” Oliver’s deep baritone pulls Elio out of his study haze. 

“Of course, c’mon there’s plenty of room here.” Elio shifts around his stuff and hands Oliver the water bottle he has in his backpack.  He watches as Oliver chugs it down in one go, his Adam’s apple riding up and down as he swallows, perspiration dripping down his neck, and boom - Elio has a full blown hard-on. Memories of yesterday fill his head; Oliver’s mouth swallowing him down, the utter perfection of Oliver’s lips around his cock.  He shifts down on his belly but it’s mighty uncomfortable. Oliver doesn’t miss a trick, seeing Elio squirming, a slight grimace on his face. 

“I’d take care of that for you if we weren’t in such a public place,” he whispers into the curls at the base of Elio’s neck.

Elio groans and blushes at the same time, turning right side up on the blanket, hands covering his face, his erection tenting his jeans. Oliver lies face down next to him and throws his leg over Elio’s thigh, pressing upwards between his legs. The pressure is obscene. It feels good but Elio wants so much more. 

Elio mumbles “exquisite torture” under his breath, pulls his hands off his face and Olivers flashes him a lopsided grin. 

“Ugh, you’re killing me.”

“See, this is when an invisibility cloak would come in handy, and I do mean ‘handy.’”  Oliver does a double jump with his eyebrows and Elio rolls his eyes. 

“God, Oliver, you really are a dork under all the trappings aren’t you?”

“Trappings. There are no trappings Elio. I am a full-fledged dork with no apologies.  Do you wanna get out of here? I believe you owe me something that I am very interested in collecting on.”

Elio is so tempted to just follow Oliver home like a horny puppy, but midterms...studying.

“I can’t really Oliver. But um, let me just study for 45 minutes more and I will come by. 

“Good, that gives me time to shower, and can you stay for dinner? I’m cooking.” 

Elio smiles and nods.  Yes. This is good. Not just a sex lesson and shuffled off out of the way.  

If power studying is a thing, then Elio does it.  He sets an alarm on his phone for 45 minutes and turns his laser focus to memorizing names, dates, and salient facts. 

When the alarm goes off he has to stop himself from running to Oliver’s place. 

He is thinking about yesterday, and trying to parse out what felt good, and why.  He deduces that it all comes down to pressure and repetitive friction. He briefly wonders if there are any graduate papers published on the physics of blowjobs. 

If he can just stay focused on the mechanics maybe he can distance himself from feeling anything, just aim to please Oliver. 

The door is slightly ajar when he gets to the apartment.  He hears some blues playing and sticks his head into the entryway.  “Oliver? Are you here?” He hesitatingly enters the living room and looks around, he is nowhere to be found. Elio closes the door behind him and walks out to the patio. Oliver is shirtless, laying on a chaise lounge, sunglasses on, a beer on the table next to him; the ideal picture of a southern California boy basking in the spring sunshine, on a protected porch, somewhere in Rome. 

Elio sucks in his breath. Oliver is perfection personified. He approaches him, eyes sweeping up and down his long legs, muscular thighs encased in tight jeans, his honey colored chest covered in golden down. 

Our sweet Elio can no longer contain his hunger. Yearning, lust, coil in his belly, he makes a move to sit next to Oliver’s legs on the recliner.

“Hi.” 

Ah, so he is awake.  Oliver makes no move to take off his glasses, but he does reposition his legs so Elio has a place to sit.  

“Got your studying done, I presume?”  Elio nods his head, he can’t take his eyes off of Oliver’s torso, He wants to plant himself in the blond dusting of hair, steep in his scent, the draw is so overwhelming he is practically paralyzed. 

His throat is dry, he squeaks out a “yes.”

“You sound like you could use a beer, there’s plenty in the fridge.” He makes no move to go get one for Elio. Unlike him, as he is usually the most congenial of hosts.  

Elio thinks some sort of beverage is a good idea, no memorable blow job ever started with a dry mouth he guesses. He makes his way to the kitchen and sees that Oliver has Aranciata, his absolute favorite. He grabs a bottle and heads back out to the sunny deck.  

Ahh so much better than that crap Fanta the Americans try and push as good orange soda. 

He sits back down on Oliver’s chaise.  

“You like that?” Oliver acknowledges the soda in Elio’s hand. “Good right? I think I need an orange flavored kiss right about now.”  Oliver presses the back of Elio’s neck toward him and takes the kiss from Elio’s mouth. As Elio tries to deepen it, Oliver pulls away, lays back, and tilts his chin in Elio’s direction. “I believe you owe me something. Have you thought about what you liked yesterday?”

“Basically everything, but yeah.” Elio is embarrassed. He can’t meet Oliver’s eyes. His face is 3 shades of crimson, and so so warm. 

 

Oliver is literally and figuratively hiding behind his dark black sunglasses.  He keeps internally reminding himself that he is playing a game here, that he is doing Elio a service, safely ‘educating’ him about casual sex and giving him what he thinks he needs. 

He almost forgets to check in with Elio like he promised.

“Are you up for this today? Still comfortable with this whole idea?”

“Yes,” Elio replies. He is still blushing and unable to look Oliver in the eye. 

“I just don’t know where to start, I mean I’m not going to just grab your crotch or anything, that seems like a total amateur move.”

“Good call Elio. C’mere, Let’s kiss, and you can stroke me over my jeans, see how hard you make me.”  

Elio lets out a little groan. Oliver saying that makes it difficult for him to breathe. How can one person be so self-assured, so sexually confident? 

Ah. If Elio only knew what was really going on.   Oliver isn’t as phlegmatic as he presents. There is a constant undercurrent of self-discipline and restraint that is completely hidden from Elio. 

Elio scoots a bit closer to Oliver and leans in for a kiss. This time it’s slow and soft, Oliver’s tongue caressing Elio’s lips, Elio opening up for him, his eyes closed and his head tilted back. Oliver strokes his neck with his thumb, his fingers finding purchase in his curls.  Elio practically crawls on top of Oliver in order to get closer. The heady mix of suntan lotion and perspiration spur Elio on, instinct taking over, finally, the self-doubt on repeat is silenced. 

Elio remembers Oliver’s hands tracing over his abdomen, how turned on he was.  

His elegant fingers accustomed to playing a keyboard, now gracefully pet and tease Oliver’s nipples. He runs his thumb along Oliver’s sternum, and follows his fingers with his mouth, tonguing one then the other peaked areola. Oliver groans without thinking, his cool, momentarily lost in the ecstasy of the sensation of Elio’s full lips. 

Oliver’s reaction spurs him on. Finally! He elicits a response, some feedback to know he is on the right track. 

Oliver’s still hiding behind his dark glasses, using them as a shield. 

Elio makes his way down Oliver’s body, kissing and licking his abdomen, tonguing his navel. Oliver involuntarily thrusts his hips slightly up, at the mercy of Elio’s hungry mouth. 

A momentary flash of self-consciousness causes Elio to stop his ministrations. Oliver looks down at him, lifts his glasses and raises his eyebrows. 

“You’re doing fine Elio. Don’t stop.” 

He resumes kissing and licking Oliver’s abs, running his tongue along his hip bone. He unbuttons Oliver’s jeans and takes a deep breath centering himself. 

Of course, Oliver is commando, anticipating this scenario, making it ‘easy’ for Elio to pleasure him.  

He lifts his hips and Elio tugs his jeans down mid-thigh where they remain. 

Oliver’s cock is a thing of beauty, huge, fully erect. It’s perfect, just like the rest of him, Elio thinks, wondering how did one person become the recipient of so many natural gifts? It’s hardly fair. Ah, back to the task at hand (or is that mouth?)

He refocuses and doubles down, covering his teeth and forming a tight circle around the head of Oliver’s cock.  There is no way he can take him all in his mouth so he opts for concentrating on the sensitive head. 

Oliver obviously appreciates the effort as Elio hears a long low “mmmmmmm.”  This is encouraging, he starts to put his theory into practice and use friction and pressure to amp up the pleasure factor. Elio wets his fingers with Oliver’s precome and makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger and wraps it around Oliver’s shaft.  Along with his mouth, his fingers work his cock hard and Oliver utters a soft “oh fuck.” Oliver uses all of his self-control not to push Elio’s head down into his groin, forcing him to take more in his mouth. 

Seeing Elio’s head of curls pressed between his legs creates an indelible image that sears itself into his brain; erotic, heart curdling, not something he will soon forget. 

He taps Elio’s shoulder and lets him know he’s close.  Elio doesn’t back down, he wants to taste Oliver - he wants the full experience, so he continues his gentle assault until Oliver comes.  Elio pulls back, surprised by the force and the amount of come, his neck receiving the brunt of the strike. 

He licks his lips and doesn’t hate the salty bitter taste. It’s not great, but not horrible either. 

Oliver is leaning back against the chaise, not saying anything.  

In true Elio style, he wonders if he did something wrong, maybe it was too quick? Maybe Oliver is disappointed he couldn’t take all of him in his mouth.

 

Eventually, he speaks. 

“Jesus, Elio. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?  That was amazing.” Finally, he takes his sunglasses off. 

“I think I’ll keep you around if you’re that good at giving head.”

_ Woops, Oliver thinks, probably not the right thing to say.   _ Fuck, I am in way over my head here. _ _

__

Elio grins at him.  “Yeah? It was O.K. then?”

__

Oliver tucks himself into his jeans and zips up. He nods. 

_He gets up to grab a towel, and tosses it to Elio to clean himself up._

“Well, I did a lot of research and kind of figured out what would work and so…”

_Elio says as he wipes his neck and chin._

“You investigated how to give a blow job? Elio you are one unique person, come here.”

__

With that, he pulls Elio up to give him a slow, deep kiss, trying without words, to let him know how much he appreciated the effort.  

__

Elio hoists himself up on the chaise and tucks his head into Oliver’s side and they both doze. 

__

Later after they nap,  Oliver gently extricates himself from Elio’s arms and places him back on the lounger.  He makes his way to the kitchen, still slightly dazed and dreamy from his intense climax and resultant stupor.  

__

There is an inherent sweetness that is so evident in Elio, a basic decency that no protective defenses can cover up. The kid is a conundrum to Oliver, or maybe it’s his own internal struggle that is so confusing.  He wants to unravel the riddle that he is, delve into his corners and deconstruct all the puzzling aspects. By now, he normally would be bored with this game, moving on to a more sophisticated dalliance. But obviously, there’s something here. Even when he’s not right outside sleeping, Oliver finds himself thinking about Elio.  He thinks about him at school, picturing mundane activities; composing, hanging out with his friends, going to clubs. And, more often than not, Oliver has more explicit reveries: wondering how it would feel to have him riding his dick, gazing into those green eyes above him, fucking him into oblivion. 

__

Elio’s willingness to please, his pliancy, excites Oliver in novel and unprecedented ways.  Desires kindled that until now have laid dormant. Dark, untried wants that he has barely let himself consider; restraint and denial, coercion and subjugation. He mentally chides himself for having such depraved thoughts. Elio’s a virgin for Christ’s sake, this is his first sexual encounter. Oliver feels an obligation to make it a positive one, to set a course for him that is based on pleasure and confidence, not the licentious cravings of a jaded man whore.  

__

See? Oliver has self-judgement too; none of us, it seems, are immune.  

__

He busies himself with dinner preparation. He is determined to make Elio a wonderful meal, where they can just hang out and be normal. He prepares the steaks, wraps the potatoes in aluminum foil and brushes some zucchini with olive oil and garlic. He returns to the deck to light the gas grill. Glancing over at the chaise, Elio is on his side, fast asleep, his dark eyelashes in stark contrast to his pale freckled cheek, lush lower lip slightly opened. Oliver’s heart stutters a bit.  

__

 

__

He lays out silverware and plates in the kitchen, lights some of the candles that decorate the table, dims the lights and goes out to check the grill. The potatoes are heating up nicely. He lays out the two steaks and holds back the zucchini. It’s all about the timing. 

__

Glancing over at Elio, he sees that he is still reclining although his eyes are open and he is smiling. 

__

“Hi.”

__

“I forgot to ask you, do you eat meat? I uh...”

__

Elio chuckles.”Well...”

__

“Dirty boy. Obviously, you do, and well, I might add, but does a steak sound good to you?”

__

Elio is laughing out loud. “Sorry I couldn’t resist. You set me up. Yeah, that sounds really good actually. I haven’t been eating well at all, except of course for our dinner at Pierluigi. Still thinking about that, one of the top five meals of my life.”

__

“Really? Good, glad I could provide that.  What’s another of your favorites?”

__

“Well, there is a restaurant near my parent’s villa in Crema, called Botero. I always celebrate my birthday there. I don’t know if I love it because of all the memories or because it’s just really good. They don’t have a Michelin star or anything, I don’t care about that.”

__

“When is your birthday Elio? “

__

“June 15.”

__

“When is yours?”

__

“October 21”

__

Oliver lays out the steak on the grill and places the basted zucchini slabs over the heat. 

__

“How do you like your steak?”

__

“Medium rare, please. “ 

__

“OK great.  Dinner should be ready in about 15 minutes.  Wine?”

__

“Yeah sure sounds good.”

__

Oliver returns with two generously poured red wine glasses.  They sit side by side on the chaise lounge. Oliver looking at Elio with an open fondness, not holding back at all.  The directness of his gaze, and his sincere warmth, hits Elio squarely in the chest. This tenderness is wholly unexpected and his breath catches. 

__

“What?” Oliver says smiling. His blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Can’t I just look at you and appreciate you?”

__

“Yeah, sure I guess. You just caught me off guard.”

__

“Well, we both have our guards up most of the time, don’t we? Oliver says softly. 

__

“Yeah, we do. I guess I’m responsible for that huh?” Elio says, gazing into the deep ruby of his glass of  Valpolicella. 

__

No one says anything for a few moments.  Oliver still looking at Elio, Elio still looking down at his wine. 

__

“Why Elio? Who hurt you so badly that you avoid your feelings?” 

__

Oliver realizes that he is sitting right next to Elio, crowding him a bit and between that and the question he just asked,  he needs to give him some space. He gets up to check on the steaks. 

__

“You have it all wrong Oliver. It’s not that someone hurt me.” 

__

“Enlighten me then.”

__

“It’s not that I’m afraid of my feelings, or that I don’t want to get hurt. To me, love is being overtaken, controlled, no privacy. I have enough of that. I don’t want more.”

__

“So correct me if I’m wrong, there’s good control and bad control, because I didn’t hear you object when I took the lead in our recent activities.”  Oliver flips the steak. 

__

“Well when I’m with you,  I voluntarily hand my power over to you.  And I know that there will be a finish to it and a rebalancing, hopefully.  I can’t be so sure in ‘real life.’”

__

The truth starts to dawn on Oliver.  It must be his family. They must be the ones who skewed his experience of love. 

__

“Were you abused at home? Taken advantage of?” Oliver asks tentatively, afraid of the answer but willing to hear Elio out. 

__

Elio barks out a laugh. “Oh god no. Nothing like that Oliver, geez.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Oh man, if my parents are guilty of anything it’s just that they love me too much.  On some level, I don’t know where I begin and they end. Is that weird?” 

__

“It’s pretty common actually. I think it’s called enmeshment.” Oliver comes back over and sits next to Elio.

__

“It’s a thing? You mean it’s a known issue?  Other people deal with this also?” Elio seems floored. 

__

In Oliver’s circle, going to a therapist is de rigueur.  Elio, on the other hand, has absolutely no frame of reference as to the commonality of the human experience. It would never occur to him to share this sort of inquiry with his friends, even his best friend Marzia.  His parents seem perfect to the outside world, he doesn’t want to disabuse anyone of this notion. 

__

Oliver, although never having had therapy, has had enough discussions with his friends to be aware of their issues.  Often the result of narcissistic parents, enmeshment is pervasive in modern-day parenting and everyone deals with it in a different way. 

__

Oliver doesn’t want their dinner to turn into a therapy session but he somehow wants to reassure Elio that whatever he is going through is certainly not unique to him. 

__

“Come, dinner’s ready. Let’s eat inside, it’s already getting cold out here.” He carries in the platter of steak and hands the plate of vegetables and potatoes to Elio.

__

“Elio, we don’t have to get too heavy into the discussion at dinner, but just so you know, not all relationships that involve love are invasive and repressive. Two people can love each other and still maintain independence and a strong sense of self. In fact, I would venture to say that those two things are imperative.  Don’t shy away from getting close to someone just to avoid being overtaken. Learning what your boundaries are, and becoming comfortable with what you can and can’t tolerate is really important. 

__

Elio is quiet, pensive even. His demeanor is such a contrast to his normal excited borderline manic state that Oliver is concerned. 

__

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Oliver asks as he gets up to fetch the wine. He returns and stands behind Elio with his hand firmly placed on his shoulder. 

__

Elio sighs. “It just seems so obvious to me, now that I have had some distance, that I have the right to a private life, details and feelings that I don’t have to share with my parents. They never  _ demanded  _ anything from me, it’s just the way it has always been. There are two sides to the coin though. I don’t want to demonize them, I am completely and totally accepted for who I am.  How many kids my age can say that?”

__

Oliver blows out a breath loudly and sits down.  “Not many I dare say. I am so envious of that. And in fact I have to be honest here, that steady stream of love that you describe is a completely alien concept to me.  To not have to modify your behavior to ensure acceptance is almost out of my range of comprehension.”

__

Congratulations are due these two. Not only have they revealed themselves,  but they also managed to get right to the heart of the issue on their first try. This is most certainly a tribute to their underlying goodness as individuals.  

__

Elio remains thoughtful throughout dinner. He compliments Oliver on the meal and stands next to him at the sink, helping wash up the dishes. 

__

“Do you want to stay and watch a movie or something?” Oliver asks, hoping that Elio agrees. 

__

“Um sure. An old favorite or something new?”

__

“What’s your favorite film, Elio?”

__

“I have so many,  _ Bladerunner _ , both versions,  _ Moonlight _ ,  _ Perks of Being a Wallflower _ ,  _ Shawshank Redemption _ , the list goes on…”

__

“I freaking love  _ Shawshank _ and I haven’t seen it in so long. Let’s watch that!” Oliver says excitedly. 

__

They settle into the amazingly comfortable couch and pull up the film on Netflix. Elio sits impossibly close to Oliver, almost on his lap, head tucked up under his arm. 

__

Contentment settles over both of them like a warm blanket. 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for continuing to read. More of the journey ahead of us. Mae428 continues to encourage and correct, and I am so grateful. A rough week for me, as I had to put my beloved dog to sleep. He was my best pal, and my heart is a bit broken. The price we pay for loving fully.  
> Writing helps- so grateful for all of you and your thoughts.  
> Hoping this year brings you all what you dream of.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the movie Shawshank Redemption in the first paragraph or so. Sorry. Once again many thanks to Mae428 for her patience and support. Your comments and kudos are so appreciated.

Shawshank might be a perfect film; The performances, the cinematography (that opening shot over the rooftop! C’mon!), the plot.  Everything around Elio and Oliver disappears and their entire world becomes Shawshank State Penitentiary. Tim Robbins has never been better, and Morgan Freeman is sublime.  

When Brooks, who can’t adjust to life outside of prison, takes his own life, Elio becomes emotional. Tears pool in his eyes, he uses the back of his hand to wipe his face.  Oliver gets up, ostensibly to get him a tissue. 

“Do you want me to pause it?” He hears a muffled “No, it’s fine.” Oliver returns a minute later and sits back down. 

“You didn’t miss much,” Elio says, slightly embarrassed that he can still cry about this scene after having seen the film close to 8 times. 

Elio squirms close to Oliver and is rewarded with a one-armed squeeze and a kiss to his curls. 

In the last five minutes of the film, Elio lets his mind drift to a fantasy of him and Oliver, walking hand in hand on the beach in Zihuatanejo. 

 

**Elio!  That is in direct violation of the terms and conditions of this relationship.**

 

He pulls his thoughts back in and chastises himself. His immediate impulse is to grab his backpack and go. He starts to look around for his stuff and shifts on the womb-like sofa. 

 

He feels a hand clamp down on his arm to hold him in place, and Oliver clears his throat. 

 

“Listen Elio, while you and I are doing this - whatever it is we’re doing- I want you to wear this.”  He pulls a leather pouch out of his pocket. “It’s a reminder that right now, you belong to me. And if you agree to wear this, you won’t be with anyone else.  It also means you won’t get yourself off. Essentially, all of your orgasms belong to me as well.” He opens the pouch and pulls out a [silver bracelet that resembles a strand of rope](http://i63.tinypic.com/b64kyr.jpg) Elio’s eyes widen, his mouth slack with surprise. 

Where did this come from? It feels somewhat out of the blue. 

If the truth be told, Oliver was doing some shopping on the Via Condotti and he saw the bracelet in the window of Bvlgari. The compulsion to have Elio wearing it was overwhelming.  It was an impulse buy in the truest sense of the word. But now that he thinks about it, he wants Elio to be reminded of their arrangement unceasingly. It’s only fair, if Oliver can’t stop thinking about him, then the weight of the bracelet will distract Elio in the same way.  Little does he know that Elio’s mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Oliver more often than not. 

 

Oliver looks down at the heavy strand of silver and then at Elio. 

Elio licks his bottom lip and holds out his pale wrist. Oliver bought the smallest one they had, and it fits Elio snugly but not too tight. 

Seeing the rope across his young lover’s fragile wrist sends a jolt of want through him. He takes Elio’s arm and pins it above his head, pressing the bracelet into the overstuffed couch. 

“Do you understand what you’re agreeing to Elio? You’re mine until you take it off. Capisci?” 

Elio nods, his eyes at half-mast, overcome with his need to surrender everything to Oliver at that moment.  

“I need to hear you say it Elio.”

“Yes Oliver, as long as I wear this, I’m yours. I swear,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Oliver leans in to kiss Elio who yields to him completely, no push back, just open warmth acquiescing to Oliver’s insistence. His mouth open, his limbs pliable, Elio melts into Oliver’s heat.

It takes every last ounce of Oliver’s self-control not to force himself on Elio. He would never do that, it’s just he wants him so badly.  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. This was going to be a distraction, something to help him put the last year behind him. 

And now Oliver is clearly in over his head.  Sometime in the last 12 hours or maybe before that, it has ceased to be an amusement and is bordering closer to obsession.  The idea that he does not hold dominion over his emotions greatly disturbs him. 

But does it stop him?  No. 

 

He continues to suck the nectar from Elio’s lush mouth and press against him like a rutting stag. 

This was certainly not the plan for this evening. Elio was coming over to service him. And Oliver’s turned it into dinner and a movie. 

He pulls away from Elio, his thoughts spiraling. 

 

“Oh no. Not again. I hate it when you do this,” Elio says, pushing out his reddened lower lip in a pout.

“What?”

“You get in your head, and a wall comes down and there’s no more kissing, nothing. If you own me now, if I’m yours, then use me.“

His words inflame Oliver, absolutely drive him mad. He is on Elio, overpowering him, devouring him, kissing every exposed piece of skin, and when that is not enough he lifts Elio’s t-shirt off, his mouth navigating and claiming territory as it moves across his ivory torso. 

The moans and breathless sighs coming from Elio further ignite Oliver.  He feels Elio tugging at his shirt, he breaks away from the smooth plane of Elio’s chest, so he can lift off his own shirt, their eyes meet.  Oh, he is so fucked. 

  
Oliver’s skin has retained the warmth of the sun, and Elio presses his cheek against the honey glow. He lets his hands snake around his back, holding him tightly. 

 

“Kiss me again Oliver, please.”

 

Oliver holds his face in his hands and kisses him so deeply and so passionately that Elio feels he may pass out. 

 

Oliver has come to the fork in the road.  He has to either tell Elio that he wants more, wants something real with him, screw his rules and his reluctance, or he has to walk away.  He can’t take Elio’s virginity, making it a part of their agreement, and discount his own growing feelings. 

It would be a disservice to both of them.   He resolves to talk to him in the morning.

 

“Stay over, Elio. I want you in my arms with nothing on but that bracelet.”

Elio swoons just a bit.  

He says nothing. Gets up, and starts removing his clothing piece by piece, making a trail for Oliver to follow. Nude, he walks straight into the bathroom, pisses, and then takes a clean washcloth from the stack on the sink, he scrubs his face and hands and helps himself to the mouthwash he finds in the cabinet.  Oliver observes from the doorway. 

Elio brushes past him, a small grin on his face, smug even. 

“What?” Oliver says. 

“Nothing.”

Oliver takes his turn in the bathroom, and returns to find Elio in his bed, on his back, propped up against the pillows, fully on display for him.  

Oliver closes his eyes and mutters “Oh God.” He takes a deep breath and says, “You’re making things very difficult for me.” 

“That’s my plan.” The smirk returning to Elio’s face. 

This whole experience, even if it blows up, has at the very least, buoyed Elio’s sexual self- confidence. He has come to realize, to Oliver, he is compelling. 

With that, Oliver launches himself on the bed, determined to playfully wrestle Elio into submission. It pretty quickly dissolves into a tickle fight with Oliver having the clear upper hand due to the fact that he is still partially dressed.  

With gasps and feeble attempts to catch his breath, Elio manages to squeak, “Stop, stop, I give, I give.” They are both laughing and breathing hard. Oliver wriggles out of his jeans and boxer shorts and covers himself with the duvet.  

 

Elio, newfound confidence unfolding, gets under the comforter as well, and proceeds to lay on top of Oliver.  For once, Oliver lays back and lets Elio have his way with him. Moaning as the boy kisses his neck, and pushes against him, Oliver is gone. All pretense of control and domination obliterated. Elio feasts on his body, his tongue everywhere, licking his chest, letting his fingers graze his now unbearably stiff dick. Oliver pushes up into his hand, desperate for some resistance.  Elio aligns himself with Oliver and rubs their cocks together. 

Oliver spits in his large palm and takes over, jerking them together while using his other hand to guide Elio into a heated kiss.  It is absolute perfection as they both come almost simultaneously, Elio’s orgasm preceding Oliver’s by only a few seconds. Elio flops on his back, eyes closed.  Oliver, never one to appreciate a sticky mess gets up to retrieve a wet cloth. After cleaning up, Elio curls into Oliver’s chest, snuffling into the warm comfort he finds there.  Oliver, knowing that the morning brings an obligation to have ‘the talk’ falls into a dreamless sleep. 

  
  


Oliver awakens to a kiss on his forehead, and a fully dressed Elio standing by the side of his bed. 

“I have an 8am lecture. And I have to stop by my apartment to get my notes. I’ll text you later.” With that, he is out the door and Oliver is left lying in bed smiling to himself.   _ I guess that talk will just have to wait.   _

He hears an odd buzzing coming from the living room.  Reluctantly he gets up and pads over to his desk. The iPhone he uses for his American business and family calls is lit up. He answers, only to hear his breathless sister on the line. 

“Oliver, it’s Dad. He’s had a massive heart attack. You have to come home right now. Everything’s a mess.” 

“Alicia, how’s Mom? What are the doctors saying? Is he gonna make it?”

She is trying not to cry, he can tell by her choking sobs. “Um, Mom is with Dad in ICU now I think. She called me from the ambulance. This came out of nowhere, I mean he was at work, they just completed some huge multinational thing that dad had been kind of stressed about.  I told Mom I would call you. Just get home, as soon as you can. I am heading to the hospital now. I’ll call you back.”

 

Oliver pulls out his suitcase while his mind is reeling. Throwing things into his bag he uses his Italian Samsung phone to call the airlines and manages to secure a first-class British Airways flight to Los Angeles.  He then calls the owner of the AirBnB and leaves a message that he’s had a family emergency. He apologizes for leaving the apartment in disarray and requests to be notified if there are any additional cleaning charges.  He packs up all of his stuff and is out the door hailing a cab in a matter of minutes. His thinks of Elio and figures he’ll text him when he gets to the airport. If only, as his Samsung slipped out of his pocket as he rushed to get into the cab.  

                                                     ________________________

 

Elio’s morning is spent in a bit of a blissed-out haze.  Sleeping over at Oliver’s was wonderful. He feels the shift in their dynamic and knows everything is different now.  He impulsively sends a text to Oliver.  _ I loved waking up in your arms. I guess it’s time to renegotiate our terms _ .  He adds a heart eyes emoji and sends it.  It’s really the first time he’s let himself be emotionally vulnerable and open.  It feels good. 


	9. Chapter 9

Oliver barely has time to call his car service in Los Angeles and speak to his sister from the first class lounge. Things are up in the air. Emergency open heart surgery and a 6 way bypass was performed. Serious Stuff.  She is sobbing on the phone. He is in shock. One minute life was bordering on blissful and the next everything’s gone to shit. He tells his sister that he will come straight to the hospital from the airport. They call his flight. 

He remembers that he wanted to send Elio a quick text, and try and explain what’s happened. He searches for the Samsung phone in his pocket, where he knows he put it. His pocket is empty. As he boards the plane he pats himself down, jeans, carry-on bag, the phone is nowhere to be found.  He dials the Rome phone number from his iPhone, and he can’t get reception on the plane. He doesn’t have Elio’s number in his iPhone. He can’t even send an email. He groans in frustration. 

The first class flight attendant comes over to make sure everything is alright. She is a beautiful blonde, with a kind face and a professional demeanor.  “Hi, my name is Sophia. Is there anything I can help you with?“ 

“I just wanted to send a quick email from my phone before we take off. I can’t seem to get any reception.” 

“Oh yes, we do that for security reasons sir. I’m sorry.”

Oliver sits back in his seat and sighs in resignation.  “Thank you, Sophia.”

“Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Some water?”

“Yes, water, please. Thank you.” He has 15 hours of worrying ahead of him.  He’s too wired to sleep. He can’t concentrate on a movie and has no reading material with him.  The plane takes off and once it is level, the captain comes on over the loudspeaker. “Thank you for flying British Airways, welcome aboard. Our flight time is 15 hours and thirty minutes.  We will be cruising at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. I anticipate a smooth flight today, but please keep your seatbelt on while you are seated. I regret to inform you that there is no wifi on the plane, but we do have many choices for inflight entertainment.  Once again thank you for flying British Airways.”

  
  


15 hours incommunicado.  Not just any 15 hours, 15 hours when Elio has made himself vulnerable, laid it out there for Oliver to know that yes, indeed, he feels something, something big. 

15 hours is not just 15 hours when you are waiting for a response.  It is literally forever. 

  
  


Elio finds it odd that Oliver hasn’t responded. A small pop of anxiety surfaces but he pushes it back down - his new found confidence can’t be rattled that quickly.  He gets through his morning classes and has a sandwich in the park. His midterm is tomorrow, he can’t afford to be distracted. He puts his phone on the blanket next to him and can’t help but check it to make sure it’s charged and working. He texts Marzia and asks her to text him to him to double check.  The text is received. There is nothing wrong with his phone.

He puts in a solid two hours of studying.  He decides to use the dreaded phone to call Oliver, might as well find out what’s wrong.  He presses call next to his contact name. It rings and rings and then goes dead. No voicemail prompt. Nothing. 

Now the anxiety and the self-doubt start in full force.   _ That text message was too much. It scared him off.  Why did I send it? Maybe he’s just cooling off and waiting to respond? Maybe something happened?    _

The second-guessing and uneasiness fill his head so much that he can barely function. He looks around and the afternoon has turned cold and windy. He packs up his stuff and decides to go by Oliver’s apartment.  He might as well just get it over with. 

When he arrives, there is a cleaning crew there. 3 bags of trash are propping the door open and someone is scrubbing the inside of the now empty fridge.  It is as if he was never here, never existed even.

Elio asks the person who seems to be in charge: 

“Che sta succedendo? Sa cos’è successo alla persona che prima abitava qui?”   
The cleaning person replies “Ah, guardi, non lo so. Abbiamo solo ricevuto una chiamata oggi che ci diceva di venire, pulire e lasciare la casa pronta per il nuovo affittuario.”   
 “Va bene. Grazie.”

 

(Elio: What’s going on? What happened to the guy that was staying here?”   
Cleaning person: “I don’t know.  We just got the call today to come in and clean.  We were told to make it ready for a new renter.”   
Elio: “Ok. Thank you.”

 

His emotions are all over the place as he makes his way down the stairs: angry, sad, bewildered, betrayed.  Was it just the text that sent Oliver running away from him? Did it freak him out so badly that he couldn’t even say goodbye, to explain himself?  Elio never thought Oliver was cruel. But this, this is sadistic. He walks back to his flat rapidly, brushing away random tears as they come up. How could he have been taken in like this...so gullible, so naive. All that new found self-esteem is gone in the blink of a tearful eye. 

 

He locks himself in his room.  He has a crucial midterm tomorrow, and more after that. He studies until 9.  It’s been 12 hours since he sent Oliver that text. After trying to concentrate for the previous 4 hours, Elio makes a decision.  He blocks Oliver’s number from his phone, and blocks his email address. This is what he feels he needs to do. This is how he will stop feeling so out of control. 

 

The universe is entertained.  I guess I have to say it again.  Control is an illusion. 

 

___________  Oliver _____________

 

There’s possibly nothing worse than being agitated within the confines of an airplane.  You can only get up and walk to the restroom a certain number of times. It’s not like the old days when you could climb the stairs in a 747 and do a circuit in the business class lounge.  First class passengers are discouraged from walking the length of the plane through the economy section. It’s been 12 hours, Oliver wants to jump out of his skin. They must be somewhere over Canada at this point. 

He’s worried about his father - that is his most pressing concern. He’s uneasy that somehow Elio will misinterpret his silence when he doesn’t hear from him. Talk about powerless, Oliver is like a caged lion at this point. 

 

Sophia checks in on him.  “Maybe I can get you a drink sir, might take the edge off?” 

“A double Jameson please, straight up.”  She goes to the galley and returns with his drink, a dish of warm nuts, and a cheese plate.  She has such a kind face and seems so easy to talk to. Oliver is tempted to ask for a hug or even tell her what’s bothering him, but he refrains.  This golden god we have gotten to know over the past month is rendered human by concern for his father and dare we say it, the inability to contact his young lover. 

 

Finally. Finally, the plane starts its descent into the Los Angeles area.  Oliver starts a mental checklist of everything he has to do. Primarily, he has to get to Cedar Sinai Hospital and get to his family.  It will be late afternoon in Los Angeles when he arrives. The captain comes over the loudspeaker and thanks everyone for traveling with British Airways. He announces that the weather in Los Angeles is a sunny and pleasant 72 degrees.  The landing is smooth and Oliver is the first one to disembark after he thanks Sofia for all of her kind attention. He picks up his bag and makes his way through customs and immigration. “No nothing to declare, that’s right, I was there for pleasure.” He smiles to himself.  He turns his iPhone on, and gets a text that the car service is waiting for him curbside. Once inside the car, he sends Elio an email from his phone. 

E- My father has had a heart attack and I left Rome right away and just got back to Los Angeles.  I think I lost my Italian cell phone and don’t have your number in my iPhone. Please send it to me right away.  My number is 001310-226-7841. Just text me or WhatsApp me as soon as you can please. 

It’s hard to believe that 20 hours ago you were naked in my arms and now we are separated by half a planet.  I’ll fill you in when I know more. I am on my way to the hospital. 

I miss you.   O

 

And Elio will never see this email as it has been routed directly into his trash, not even into the spam folder which he checks occasionally.  And he will not see all the emails that follow - each one growing in frantic intensity as Oliver becomes more and more desperate to get in touch. 

 

Oliver checks in at the reception desk at the hospital and gets a pass up  to the ICU Cardiac Care Unit. It’s all glass in there, and he can see his mother and sister in one of the rooms.  At least, he thinks, his dad is still alive. This is good. It’s been almost 24 hours, it has to be good right? He nods at the nurse and points to his family without stopping to chat. 

Seeing his father lying pale and hooked up to tubes and monitors seems like a scene out of a horror film.  This international business icon laid low by his battered heart is a contradiction too disconcerting to fathom.

Alicia gets to him first and hugs him hard. His Mom, usually coiffed to perfection looks harried and tired.  Oliver goes to hold her and she sort of collapses. He feels his eyes get a bit wet, his parents have never seemed so vulnerable and frail. It makes his world oscillate at the edges.

 

“How’s Dad? What’s going on?”

Alicia speaks first. “Well, he’s breathing on his own and regained consciousness this morning. He knows Mom and I are here, and that you were on your way. We are waiting for his doctors to show up.  He keeps slipping in and out.” 

“Did he speak?” 

“He didn’t speak, but he seemed to comprehend that he was in the hospital and when he was told you were coming, he nodded.”

Oliver’s mother isn’t saying much. She’s been through a lot in the last 24 hours. He hears the murmur of men’s voices and a cadre of doctors are gathered at the doorway. He shakes hands with them and introduces himself.  He lets them enter. They are focused on the patient so Oliver ushers his mother and sister out of the glass cubicle. He tells the nurse that they will be in the family lounge right outside of the unit. They huddle together in the corner, speaking in low voices, arms on each other’s back, comforting each other. Oliver’s been away 7 weeks but he is amazed by his sister’s composure and presence. She’s only a year younger than him, but she’s really stepped up since he’s left. 

Two of the doctors come out to speak with the family. They are straightforward and somewhat clinical. The bottom line is that 24 hours out from “the incident” Oliver’s father is making good progress. The most critical issue was oxygen depletion and it will take another 12 hours or so to gauge the extent of the damage if any.  If anything saved his father’s life it was the quick thinking of the heart surgeon on emergency duty. Now it’s a waiting game. 

Oliver checks his phone. Nothing. It’s 1am in Rome. He’s absolutely sure that Elio has checked his email and a current of dread lodges in his chest. He lets out a long slow breath.  His sister tilts her head to the side and lifts her eyebrows. Their silent communication game is still strong. He shakes his head minutely. 

“Mom, we’re going down to the cafeteria to get something to drink. Can I bring you back something?” Alicia asks. 

“No dear. I’m fine, if the doctors are done, I’m going to sit by Daddy’s bedside.” 

They head toward the elevators. “What’s up, big bro? I saw you frown at your phone. “

“You know, unfinished business in Rome.” He huffs out a dry chuckle. 

“Business or  _ business?   _ Inquiring minds want to know.”  

Oliver has always been discreet with his private life.  Now is certainly no exception. It somehow cheapens it to speak of Elio, to put his last 7 weeks in a narrative to be retold. 

Alicia, as intuitive as her brother, says nothing but sees something.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to thecosmicfragments for the translation,  
> and Mae428 for the general council.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Elio breezes through his midterms. It’s been a lifesaver really.  It dawns on him that in his personal hierarchy, fear of failure motivates him more than devastating heartbreak. He wonders what Maslow would think of that.  

He is scheduled to take the train home to Crema in the afternoon. Easter and Passover both fall during the week of break.  He can’t wait to get out of Rome. 

Every time he passes by Il Baretto he feels sick to his stomach, his beloved Nutella brioche has lost all appeal.   Yesterday, the opening strains of Respighi’s  _ Concerto Gregoriano _ could be heard in the hallway outside the practice room, causing a lump in his throat that made it difficult to breathe.   There’s only 7 weeks left after the break and then the persistent reminders of Oliver will be less in his face. He can get on with his life.  He wants to figure out a way to kill his pain without experiencing it. 

He packs up some clothes, puts his books into his backpack and heads to the train station.  He’s returning home with a secret. He doesn’t want to talk about the last 7 weeks, primarily because it’s all too fresh, he hasn’t let himself dwell on anything long enough to really feel the hurt.  And it is as good a time as any to start strengthening those boundaries that he and Oliver spoke about. 

But Elio is different now.  His parents will realize that after spending 10 minutes with him. He has gone through a fundamental shift.  Eros is present. Elio felt things in the last few weeks that he has never felt before, emotionally and physically.  A shift on the cellular level has taken place and who better to intuit that than the souls who birthed you, who created you, who know your essence. 

He suspects that he might have let himself fall in love and he can’t bear to tell his parents how he screwed it up. 

If the trains are running on time, and he makes his connection in Florence, it will be a 4 and ½ hour journey to his hometown. Just in time for dinner. 

He puts on his headphones and settles in.  Thankfully, the train is not too crowded and he can zone out.  He’s looking forward to his mother and Malfada’s cooking, seeing Marzia, a good talk with his father; all of it.  

He rests his hand under the window and the rope bracelet peeks out and reflects the sun. His stomach does a dip.  It’s the only tangible remnant of Oliver. The proof that he actually existed, that they had something, that he didn’t make this whole thing up. He’s not ready to take it off, he won’t until he’s sure that his heart doesn’t belong to Oliver any longer. Wasn’t that the request?

He dozes.  The steady sway of the train rocks him into a sleepy respite. 

His parents are both waiting for him at the train station.  So many hugs! You’d think he’d been gone for years, but it was less than two months. His mother covers him with kisses and beams at his face. His father clasps him firmly on the shoulder, pulling him in for yet another hug. They pile into the car, his parents curious about his finals, his piano teacher, all the details they don’t get from their weekly phone conversations. He fills them in, the 15 minute drive back to the villa feels like descending into a cocoon. He can’t decide if it’s comforting or suffocating.

There’s food, wine, good conversation. He slips back into the old Elio like a pair of comfortable tennis shoes. 

Spring is in her full glory in Crema, and with it, renewal and rebirth.  Elio takes his bike to the berm, to his secret favorite place. And there he lays, in the soft new grass, the smell of the moist earth filling his nose, his ears serenaded by the sound of rushing water in the icy stream.   

He puts his head on his arm and he weeps...deep, soulful, heart rendering sobs. He cries because he experienced something close to heaven. He cries because it is gone. He cries because the ache in his chest threatens to consume him, to decay all possible iterations of joy. He cries until he is empty, until his pain is dulled by depletion, a void where his heart used to be.  

He gets up and splashes cold water on his face. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. He’ll get through this.  But first he has to get through a week at home. 

 

\-------------Oliver---------------------

 

His empty apartment is still a bit musty and stale. His bags sit upacked by the door.  He needs a good night’s sleep on something better than a waiting room couch. Has to eat more than cafeteria coffee and premade sandwiches, and shower for God’s sake. Oliver is afraid that if he stops, if he takes time to consider the last 48 hours, he will sink into despair. 

So many issues that bear scrutiny, far too many that he doesn’t want to look at. He knows the most pressing aside from his dad’s recovery, is his father’s business empire and the obligations and expectations that go along with that. He’s sure that discussion is coming, whether it’s with his father when he recovers, if he recovers, or the board of directors of the parent company.   

He has the acumen for it, just not the drive and desire to see it through. 

This essentially,  is the fork in the road he has been dreading since he’s been 18. As long as his dad was healthy and vital, he didn’t have to face the question of succession. 

And then of course, there’s Elio.  

It still hasn’t occurred to Oliver that Elio has blocked his email. Quite possibly, the fact that someone would intentionally not want to hear from him doesn’t even enter his mind.  

All he knows is that Elio hasn’t returned any of his four emails.  Oliver subscribes to Occam’s razor theory: the less assumptions to figure something out the better.  He’s come to the conclusion that Elio is pissed that he left, and for one reason or another hasn’t received his email explanations.  The lost cell phone complicates matters. He won’t let himself dwell on it too much, his father needs all of his attention. 

He’s made plans with his sister to meet up in the morning for breakfast and then spend the day talking to doctors and making plans if they can.  He has to take one step at time or he will lose his mind.

The next morning Oliver Ubers over to Norm’s, the intact 50s googie style diner not too far from the hospital. It’s the real deal,  a classic coffee shop that has been described thusly:  “Everything that isn’t zigging can safely be assumed to be zagging.” He loves it. Authenticity can sometimes be hard to find in Los Angeles, but here it is in concrete form. 

Alicia is sitting in a booth when he gets there, deeply concentrating on some paperwork.  There are folders neatly stacked to her right, a heavy diner coffee cup in her hand. 

“Hi.”

“Oh Oliver, you look so much better, got a good night’s sleep?”

“Yes, there is something to be said about your own bed, isn’t there? What are you working on?”

“Oh this was stuff that was sent over by Dad’s office. Stuff that needs to be handled right away. I figured I could get familiar with it and then if he’s feeling better in a few days we could talk about it.“

While the waitress is taking their breakfast order, a rush of feelings come up for Oliver. Primarily anger, anger that the damn office can’t even function without sending over work for 1 goddamn day. Secondly, that his father didn’t have a #2 who could step in and make decisions at this uncertain time.  The cause of that, he knows, rests primarily with his father who’s inability to delegate is his biggest flaw. It is the reason for both his success and his heart attack. Oliver’s absolute disinterest in what’s in the folders also makes it clear which fork in the road he should choose. The clarity hits him in the face with the first cup of Norm’s excellent coffee.  

“You love this stuff don’t you? Vetting ideas, overseeing investments, organizing all the different facets of the company...the real estate, the seed companies, all that.”

Alicia looks up at him, her eyes shining, and nods. 

“You should do it then, you should run the company with Dad hopefully.”

“But I thought that when you got back from whatever it was you were doing in Italy, that’s what you were going to do, run Dad’s companies.  Everyone thought that. Italy was your break before you ‘settled down’ and got serious.”

“Alicia, the only thing I am serious about is that I don’t want to run Dad’s companies.  I’m a much better idea man. If you want me involved, that’s fine, but I can’t stay here and show up at 8 am every morning in a suit. I’d be much happier doing to you what you’ve done to me for the last year and a half.”

“What do you mean? Oliver.”

“Pitching you ideas over the phone, laying out scenarios for you to investigate,  I swear they’d be more viable than your international matzah ball brigade or your Hello Kitty Kombucha bars.”  Alicia blushes and nods. “Yeah, the Kombucha bars were pretty lame but Chicken Soup Global has legs I swear.” She laughs. A sound Oliver hasn’t heard in a long time, certainly not in the last two days. 

“I’d still be your sounding board. You could always bounce stuff off me, I just can’t stay here and do this. I’d drown in misery.”

“Drown in misery. Jesus Oliver, that’s dramatic.” 

“That’s how it feels when I think about it. Sorry. There’s another side to me, you’ve always known that, I need to be true to myself.”

Alicia smiles, “Yeah, the side that took all those art and architecture classes at Princeton, the person that pressed for the internship at the Winterthur, and was furious when Dad nixed it.  I know that guy, I actually love that guy.”

Oliver nods, “possibly the only time Dad didn’t give in to me. He made me work in the office that summer. I was livid.”

“What’s that guy gonna do next?” Alicia asks, looking at Oliver with an open non-judgemental gaze. 

“When dad is out of the woods, fingers crossed, and things are sorted, I need to go back to Rome.  I left something there.” 

“You left something there? Really? What?

Oliver looks down at his plate, and then up at his sister.  “My heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. I know it's short. But I left you guys hanging, lots of comments last chapter I loved it. Thank you. A few things. Me and my obtuse references!  
> Maslow's hierarchy refers to the theory that individuals’ most basic needs must be met before they become motivated to achieve higher level needs.  
> "Googie" architecture is a style that was prevalent in the 50's and 60's representing "the future," reflecting the optimism of space travel and a stylistic nod to the car culture. 
> 
> Winterthur is a grand estate in Delaware that belongs to the DuPont family. It houses arguably, the greatest collection of American decorative arts in world. 
> 
> Already deep into the next chapter. I promise you will not have to wait too long. Thank you for continuing with this story.


	11. Chapter 11

Elio’s parent’s seder is anything but traditional. It’s a 45 minute long service before the meal.

An homage to nature, an acknowledgment of freedom and many, many, toasts to rebirth. Gathered around the table are neighbors, both Jewish and not, family and friends. The Perlman’s for Passover has become a tradition, one where the table expands to accommodate new friends, visiting children and relatives.

The concept of renewal and rebirth is hitting home with Elio.  He wants to start over, feel whole again, instead of empty. He wonders how long it will take.  A portion of the closing prayer before the meal resonates with him:

**May we open our homes to all who are hungry**

**For love, truth, a kind word or a hot meal,**

**Please G-d, give us the means to feed and sustain each other.**

**Let our vessel be strong**

**And let us be brave enough to relive the story we tell.**

**The bitter and the sweet,**

**The rupture and the repair.**

**Let us not be afraid to feel – to break or to rebuild.**

**Let us pulsate with the joy that comes from whole and a broken heart.**

Elio has never been religious, nor frankly are his parents, but finding meaning-using existing structures to build relevance and connection-that is something they excel at. Everyone at the table, Jews and Goyim alike have found something meaningful in their homemade cobbled together Haggadah.  

And what did Elio take away from it?  That there is joy in a broken heart, That the contrast between never having loved and having touched upon the possibility is worth the stinging pain that comes with every deep breath.  Somewhere in the contrast is happiness; having, not having, having had...it’s in there, hiding in the crevices. He suddenly feels grateful for Oliver, for knowing that he is capable of living that magical combination with someone: attraction, respect, and for a short time, trust.

He knows it will be a long road, but feels like a bit of mending has taken place.  Renewal indeed.

The rest of the week he spends seeing Marzia, taking long walks around the perimeter of the villa’s grounds, and just talking like old friends do.  They speak about school and their mutual friends. Marzia’s current crush is the aloof and highly intelligent Enzo. Elio’s never cared for him, they hang with the same crowd but Enzo has always been standoffish and sullen.  Marzia’s defensive, even going so far as saying that Elio could be viewed the same way he’s viewing Enzo. They shout at each other. They apologize. They hug. They talk. He breaks down and tells her about Oliver, about the ‘agreement.’ How heartbroken he is.

Marzia, coming to the story late, offers the explanation that maybe Elio doesn’t know the whole story, how it might not be over.  How not everything is black and white, that maybe something happened. She seems positive that someone doesn’t give a Bulgari bracelet and then 9 hours later disappear because of a text. She is convinced that Elio is missing a big chunk of the truth.  When she hears he blocked Oliver’s email she punches him hard in the arm.

“Stronzo! Now you’ll never know! You stubborn idiot!”

He rubs his arm and thinks about what she said. He knows he hasn’t been logical about the events of the past week, he couldn’t afford to be, he had to get through his exams.He asks Marzia what to do. The idea of opening himself up again, writing to Oliver feels so wrong and scary.

“I don’t know Elio. You still have his email address? Write him.  Ask him what happened. Why did he leave so abruptly? Why didn’t he answer your text?”

“But it’s been a week already, he’s probably forgotten me, onto the next thing. He’ll think I’m pathetic.”

“Elio, it’s not about what Oliver thinks of you, it’s about you finding out the truth.  Not just you obsessing over the worst possible scenario. It doesn’t matter if he thinks you are pathetic, none of that matters. All that is important is your peace of mind.”

Elio nods his head and “hmmms…”  Marzia knows him well enough to know that he will ruminate and think about writing Oliver for weeks.

“Just look at it this way: you have nothing to lose Elio.”

“So I can’t fuck up something, that’s already fucked up is what you are saying?”

She elbows him in his skinny ribs. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

They walk back to villa stopping in the kitchen to make tea and eat some of Mafalda’s Passover macaroons.  

Elio feels better after talking to Marzia. He misses her. He’s made friends in Rome this semester but no one he can have a heart to heart with. Ironically he found it really easy to talk to Oliver, when his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest, that is.

He and Marzia agree to meet up at a bar in town for Elio’s last night at home. She asks if it is ok if Enzo and some of his friends come. Elio makes a face and then laughs.  “Yeah, sure of course. You know I am just teasing you.”

They kiss on both cheeks and she leaves, picking up her bicycle from where she leaned it up against the sandstone wall.

As he shuts the front door, he hears his dad call him into his study.  The afternoon sunlight illuminates the worn velvet couch, the smell of old books and cigarettes ingrained in his sense memory - afternoons spent with his father, speaking of things important and trivial, global and personal.  His dad pats the space next to him encouraging him to sit down

“You’re different. Something’s changed.”

Elio remains inscrutable.  Staring back at his father, shoring up the nascent boundary that is just starting to gel. He resists the impulse to purge his anguish, overshare, and feel invaded once again.  He gives a tiny bit.

“You know. Just stuff.”

“I know, Elio, I may not be the person you want to speak to about such stuff. But I see you.

And I see something that was not there when you left us in January.  I have no worries about your school work, I never have, but I see sorrow where there was none before.”

“Dad, I can’t really talk about it. It is what it is.”

“Ok, then Elio. I am going to say one thing and then I will drop it.  If there is pain, nurse it. And if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out. I firmly believe that we draw to ourselves the experiences our soul needs.  And if sharing details with me feels too invasive I understand and always knew that this moment would come. But know that I am always here for you. Don’t hide from your feelings, experience them and learn from them.”  

Elio rests his head on his dad’s shoulder.  The feeling of holding an unshared thought is new and powerful. It’s like an unused muscle, stiff and awkward at first, but there is a latent strength just waiting to be built upon.  Elio doesn’t know it yet but the strengthening of this partition will set him firmly on the path to adulthood.

He really thinks about what his dad said.  ‘Snuffing out the flame’ is a vivid image and Elio wonders if he is willing to do that.  

He meets up with Marzia and some of their school friends at Bar 57. Enzo is there, they nod at each other, Elio clocks Marzia and Enzo’s intertwined pinkies. It annoys him only slightly.  He wants Marzia to be happy, and now he has the knowledge of how opening your heart to someone can be ruinous when it all goes south. He feels protective and a bit jealous of the heady feeling that accompanies the first awareness of mutual attraction.  He has a few beers and heads home. His train to Rome leaves in the morning.

___________________________________________  


Oliver, Alicia, and their mother meet with the doctors. They are surprisingly optimistic and encouraging.  The intention is to move Oliver’s dad into a private room in the afternoon. They hope to get him out of bed with assistance the next day, and home within the week.

There will be months of cardiac rehab, a salt-free diet, new medications, and instructions to avoid stress and anxiety.  For the first time in a week they have hope. Oliver knows that he is going to have to stick around for a while. Primarily because he doesn’t want to stress out his dad.  He can’t make the case for Alicia to assume the role that was being held for him too soon. He figures he will let her take the lead when their father is alert and ready to talk about work.  Oliver is sure that both his father and the board of directors already know what an asset Alicia is.

Meanwhile the email count to Elio is 7. He’s going to stop. He doesn’t know what to do, why he’s not hearing from him.  He knows his last name is Perlman and that his family lives in Crema, but he’s not even sure there is directory assistance in Italy.  He’s positive his Italian is not good enough to ask the operator for their number. He is loath to ask his sister what to do, but he is a bit desperate.  

The friends he left behind 2 months ago have not been in touch.  His social circle in Los Angeles seems provisional, around as long as there are good times and good waves. There is no one he wants to call or hang out with.  

He considers hitting a bar or two in West Hollywood, see if he can distract himself, relieve some tension, but it holds no appeal for him.

He keeps flashing back to the last night in Italy, Elio’s body pressed against his, touching in a million places, connected almost completely, contoured planes sliding together, skin to skin, He remembers falling asleep feeling whole.  

And now, he feels a bit like one of those sets you see on a studio backlot.  Beautiful from the front, perfectly put together, but when you walk around the back it’s raw wood held up by sticks.

Oliver goes up to his dad’s private room and spends some time sitting by his bed while he sleeps.  His father’s color is back, and he is breathing well on his own. The steady beep of the vitals monitor is the only thing Oliver hears.  A movement on the bed catches his eye, his father rolls on his side in an attempt to be more comfortable, and the electrodes and heart monitor restrict him a bit.  He opens his eyes and sees Oliver. His voice is croaky from disuse.

“Son.”  He reaches out his hand and grasps Oliver’s.  His grip is surprisingly strong. Tears spring to Oliver’s eyes involuntarily.  He is so happy to have this second chance to see his father, so grateful he’s made it through the worst of it. Oliver holds the cup with the straw to his dad’s mouth, watches him swallow, scoots closer to his bed.

“How do you feel, Dad?”

His father’s ice blue eyes search his face. “Truth? Like shit. I hurt all over, but happy to be alive.”

“You scared the crap out of all of us, we’re glad you’re alive too.”

This little conversation has obviously worn him out. Oliver watches as he lays on his back and closes his eyes. Oliver is content to stay with him in the room. Happy to wait for little snippets of conversation when his father is able.

 

He pulls out his phone and checks his email.  There’s one from Rob, his roommate, the Rhodes Scholar.   

 

 

> **From:[RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk](mailto:RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk)**
> 
> **To:[OxenFree@gmail.com ](mailto:OxenFree@gmail.com)**
> 
> **Re: A Visit**
> 
> Hey Oliver: Just checking in with you. Still enjoying Rome and all of her pleasures? I may pop over for a visit, are you up for company? Let me know what dates work for you. How did your friend do with that book I was able to download for him?
> 
> Things here a going well.  I may have a teaching gig over the summer which will help pay the bills.  The Journal of the Plainsong & Mediaeval Music Society accepted an article from me which they will publish in the fall. I know it sounds odd, but you of all people, know what a big deal it is for me.  Sarah is fine. She was able to spend most of April with me. She is back in Cambridge and I miss her terribly.
> 
> Fill me in on your jet-set life when you get some time.
> 
> -Yours,  Rob

 

 

> **To:[RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk](mailto:RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk)**
> 
> **From:[OxenFree@gmail.com](mailto:OxenFree@gmail.com)**
> 
> **Re:  A Visit**
> 
> Rob! Oh man. So much has happened. I’m back in Los Angeles.  Had to leave Rome suddenly as my Dad had a heart attack and is still in the hospital.  I have been back for a week and he was just moved out of the cardiac intensive care unit.  If the doctors are correct, his prognosis looks good and he can be home with my mother by mid-May.  
> 
> It was pretty touch and go there for a while.
> 
> My friend Elio felt very lucky that you were able to download that somewhat rare book for him.  I recall him telling me he aced his presentation.
> 
> Speaking of Elio, I didn’t get to say goodbye to him when I left Rome and somehow lost my cell phone that had his number.  He must think I ghosted him... all my emails remain unanswered. Any advice?
> 
> Meanwhile, no idea if and when I can return to Rome.  I will keep you posted, however. Send the lovely Sarah my best.
> 
> Oliver  
> 

The nurse comes in to check vitals and fill in the chart. Oliver takes the opportunity to walk around the hospital floor.  He needs to clear his head and stretch his legs. The brief swell of tears he had when his dad gripped his hand is the closest he’s come to an emotional release in the past week. And so much has happened. His mind briefly skitters to the possibility of never seeing Elio again and despair washes over him.

He lacks familiarity with this level of deprivation. Remember who we are dealing with here, basically the boy who has always has gotten what he wanted. Most of us have an arsenal of tools to deal with disappointment and rejection. It’s neither easy nor fun, but we soldier on, sealing up our wounds in the best way we know how. Oliver lacks this toolbox, there has never been any need for it. Now, he spends all of his extra energy not tumbling into the abyss. With all he has to deal with, it is bound to take its toll.  

Sitting in the hospital coffee shop he feels his phone shudder with a new email. It’s a response from Rob.

 

 

> **From:[RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk](mailto:RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk)**
> 
> **To:[OxenFree@gmail.com ](mailto:OxenFree@gmail.com)**
> 
> **Re: Oh Oliver!!**
> 
>  
> 
> Oliver!  I am so sorry to hear about your father. I know you are not a believer but I will pray for him. Please let your mother and sister know that I am thinking of them and send my best.  It’s never easy to see our parents, and especially someone as strong and powerful as your dad, laid low by illness. Wish I could be by your side, my friend.
> 
> Asking me for advice...Now that’s a switch up. I’m making an assumption here that Elio is not just “a friend” as you have so many, and never seem to be at a loss for making more. Frankly, I’m impressed and surprised with the sentence “all my emails remained unanswered.”  Who is this? The Oliver for whom the phrase ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ was coined? O.K. I will stop busting your chops. It’s just for the last year you have shared Zero-Zilch-Nada with me about your love life. You were evasive and vague about the person you were seeing. And now, concern about Elio feeling abandoned. Hmmm.
> 
> Well, if he is not responding to your emails he may have blocked you.  Create a new Gmail account, something guaranteed to get him to open it, and try that. Let me know what happens, you big softie. Hoping for the best. Again love and healing to your family.  Rob
> 
>  

Oliver smiles as he types his response.

 

 

> **To:[RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk](mailto:RJenkinson@ox.ac.uk)**
> 
> **From:[OxenFree@gmail.com](mailto:OxenFree@gmail.com)**
> 
> **Re:  Thanks.**
> 
> Rob- Busting my chops was your major at Princeton as I recall.  Thanks for the prayers and email tip. I’ll try it.
> 
> Oliver
> 
>  

_Blocked my email? God, I didn’t even think of that.  He must really hate me,_ Oliver thinks.

He has to come up with an email handle that will intrigue Elio but not immediately cause him to discard it without opening it. He wracks his brain.

Ah. He’s got it.  Andy Dufresne from Shawshank. Tim Robbins character. He’ll use his favorite quote.

 

 

> **From:[AndyDufresne@gmail.com](mailto:AndyDufresne@gmail.com)**
> 
> **To:[EBPerlman@email.it](mailto:EBPerlman@email.it)**
> 
> **Subject: “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of the things. And a good thing never dies.”**
> 
> Dearest Elio.
> 
> I hope you got as far as opening this email. It’s actually the 8th one I have sent.  My father has had a heart attack and I left for Los Angeles within an hour after you had left for school. I lost my Samsung phone which had your contact information.  I can only imagine what you thought when you didn’t hear from me. Please know that I have thought of little else other than the health of my father and you over this past week.  Please get back to me. Oliver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prayer comes from the writings of Sarah Zadok. A Haggadah is the prayer book used in the seder. In the Reform tradition it can be re-written to give your service meaning and relevance. A few lines borrowed from Aciman when Samuel talks to Elio about pain.  
> Many thanks to Mae428  
> And so many thanks to all of you readers who I hope continue to care about this iteration of Elio and Oliver.


	12. Chapter 12

**From:[AndyDufresne@gmail.com](mailto:AndyDufresne@gmail.com)**

**To:[EBPerlman@email.it](mailto:EBPerlman@email.it)**

**Subject: “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of the things. And a good thing never dies.”**

Dearest Elio. I hope you got as far as opening this email. It’s actually the 8th one I have sent.  My father has had a heart attack and I left for Los Angeles within an hour after you had left for school. I lost my Samsung phone which had your contact information.  I can only imagine what you thought when you didn’t hear from me. Please know that I have thought of little else other than the health of my father and you over this past week.  Please get back to me. Oliver

**Chapter 12**

Elio sees the email a few nights after returning back to Rome from his Passover/Easter break.  His heart stutters when he sees who it is from. Andy Dufresne, the unjustly accused protagonist of Shawshank.  The movie he and Oliver watched the night he stayed over. And the subject line...his favorite quote spoken by Andy, directed to Red, the character played by Morgan Freeman.  He hesitates before opening it. But his curiosity gets the better of him.

Ah. So his father was taken ill and he lost his phone. Elio doesn’t know how to feel.  The remorse and guilt get all tangled up and he can’t even respond to Oliver’s email. His impulsiveness and rash decision to block Oliver’s email have caused so much unnecessary pain and anguish. He feels childish and embarrassed.  The only thing he knows is that he can’t go through this amount of pain again. He’s not even sure he wants to cross the portal and open up the space between him and Oliver. He goes to sleep without responding in typical Elio fashion. 

The next day he forwards to email to Marzia.  With the preface;  **_You were right._ **

Another day goes by before he responds to Oliver.

 

**From:** [ **EBPerlman@email.it** ](mailto:EBPerlman@email.it)

**To:** [ **AndyDufresne@gmail.com** ](mailto:AndyDufresne@gmail.com)

**Re: Hope**

Oliver:  I am very sorry to hear about your father. How scary that must have been. Needless to say, I was concerned when I didn’t hear back from you. I stopped by your place and it was already being prepared for the next tenant. 

I know when we started to spend time together I made it very clear that what I wanted was an arrangement that left no room for feelings or emotions. I’m afraid that on my end I failed completely. And so, the past 10 days have been miserable for me. It was exactly what I had hoped to avoid. Therefore, I think this will be my last email to you. I need to concentrate on my studies, and cannot afford to be distracted.  Please respect my request and don’t contact me anymore. 

 

Elio

The tears that stream down his face while he is writing the email threaten the delicate mechanics of his laptop. He hastily mops up the moisture with his sleeve. He hesitates and then hits send, knowing he has sealed his fate and heartbreak.  He really feels he has no choice. This is the only thing that makes sense, he just needs time to move on. 

He picks up his sheet music and heads to school. Hours of practice and studying are his only diversion. He is determined to throw himself into his schoolwork, leaving no room to wallow or second guess his actions. He was already starting to feel better and Oliver’s email just reignited all the sadness and emptiness. 

He stops at  Il Baretto intent on enjoying his Nutella brioche once again, but the taste is ashy and dry in his mouth. 

He takes a deep breath and swipes at his eyes, hoping his anguish is not evident to passing strangers. 

______________________________

 

Elio’s email hits Oliver squarely in his chest. It feels like the mightiest of blows. The wind has been knocked out of him and reels backward with the words ‘don’t contact me anymore.’

He’s only grateful for the fact that he is home, alone, when he received Elio’s cruel missive. 

He can barely catch his breath, tentacles of pain shooting through his upper body every time he inhales.  This is the worst possible outcome. At least before there was hope. Now there is none, just a void where Elio’s sweet and tender kisses were held.  

Grabbing his gym bag, Oliver hurries down to his car, he needs to escape the confines of his apartment. The Maserati gives a satisfying growl as he accelerates on to the early morning vacant streets of Beverly Hills.  He makes his way up to Sunset Blvd. taking the dangerous curves at an alarming speed. His distraction is much less productive then Elio’s. In fact, it might even be considered reckless. 

Do we make an excuse for our wounded Oliver? Extending to him empathy because he knows not what he is feeling. The heartbreak he experienced at Princeton pales in comparison to what is now seeping through his bones. The loss of L, and now this. The two relationships completely different yet both ending in what feels like tragedy.  He is not suicidal, yet he can’t see getting past this. 

The ocean is the termination point for Sunset Blvd and he takes a right on the Pacific Coast Highway and heads to his favorite place;  El Matador Beach. Parking his car, he makes his way down the rickety staircase and on to the abandoned sand. Stripping off all of his clothes he hurls himself into the icy sea.  This too knocks the air out of him and he gasps as his lungs constrict. It’s painful but in a completely different way, the shock to his system comforts him in a twisted reflexive way. He bobs in the ocean, dodging the late spring waves, trying to acclimate to the frigid water, any distraction to avoid thinking about the reality thrust upon him this morning. 

The frozen plunge only serves to heighten his vulnerability when he gets out of the water. He sits on his discarded jeans, his gym bag plundered for a dry towel. He covers himself, rocking back and forth, naked in the early morning sun.  He finally weeps. He cries for all the lost possibilities and the missed opportunity of loving Elio. 

It’s not until some surfers cross his path that he is aware of his current state.  One of them stops and asks if he is ok. The next thing he knows, he’s got a hot cup of coffee being handed to him, and a Mexican surf hoodie thrown over his head. 3 guys and a girl are standing around him looking quite concerned.  “You went in without a wetsuit? Good way to get hypothermia, the water is still pretty cold.” “Do we need to call an ambulance for you?” One of the guys rips open an instant heating pack and hands it to Oliver to hold on top of the hoodie. 

“No, it’s cool guys. Thanks. I’m ok.”  

“I’ll believe it when your lips lose their blue tinge,” the girl says. Oliver tightens the towel around his waist and pulls up his jeans. He feels a bit woozy when he tries to get up. Someone hands him a water bottle, and he drinks it down.    He hangs his head between his knees and takes some deep breaths. His head clears a bit, and he looks up and smiles.

“I’m good. I’m just gonna sit here for a while and watch you guys surf.  I’ll be ok. Do you want your hoodie back?” Oliver starts to pull it off. 

“No man, those are like 2 bucks a piece in Baja, I have a box of them in my van. Please keep it.” 

 

They set their stuff up not too far from Oliver, putting on wetsuits and scoping out the waves. Once they’re in the water, and have a sense of how the waves are breaking, they get a few good rides in. Oliver just watches them, somewhat numb and shellshocked.  

He wishes he could stay here forever. Once he gets in his car and heads east, he will have to deal with reality: his dad and all that entails, as well as facing the truth about Elio.  He doesn’t think he has the strength. 

The surfers leave the water, laughing and joking with each other. They come over to Oliver to check on how he is doing. He reassures them that he feels fine. Their rather large cooler is opened and Oliver is offered a sandwich that he gratefully accepts.  Turkey and cheese have never tasted so good. Again, he wishes he never had to leave. 

They start packing up, and Oliver guesses he should leave as well. When they get to the top of the stairs, and he clicks his key fob to open the Maserati, all four of the surfers look absolutely gobsmacked.  It’s then that Oliver realizes they thought he was a homeless guy on the beach, with no food and barely a change of clothes. What could they possibly be thinking now?

He eases into the $150,000 convertible.  As he leaves, he rolls down the window and says, “Thanks, guys. I think you saved my life down there. I’ll never forget it.”

He calls his sister from the car and leaves a voice message. “Alicia, I think I’m coming down with something. Don’t want to go to the hospital in case I am sick. I’ll call you later, turning off my phone.” 

While driving, Oliver mentally inventories the booze he has in his apartment. He has enough to numb the pain for at least a week, so no stop at BevMo is needed.  Although the ill-advised dive in the Pacific numbed him temporarily, he seeks further anesthetization.

 

The banging on his apartment door rouses him from a three-day binge. He practically crawls to the entrance.  Alicia is horrified at what she sees. Oliver is still in the Mexican surfer hoodie, his hair matted and greasy, four days of stubble on his chin, and his body reeks of alcohol. She pushes past him into the living room and surveys the wreckage.  This is so blatantly out of character for Oliver that she can’t wrap her head around what has happened. She doesn’t ask. Putting the homemade chicken soup she prepared on the counter, she starts a pot of coffee. It appears Oliver has cleaned out his liquor cabinet.  A 40-year-old scotch bottle lies empty next to cheap tequila on the coffee table. 2 empty bottles of Hendricks gin are lying on their side in the kitchen sink. Her stomach roils in empathy. She pours a huge glass of water and makes Oliver drink it. He complies. She then bulldozes him into the shower, threatening to take his clothes off if he won’t do it himself. He closes the bathroom door and she hears the shower running. 

Gathering the bottles and the overflowing trash bins she props open the front door and hauls the garbage to the recycling and waste chute at the end of the hall.  She manages to straighten up the apartment so that it doesn’t look like post- nuclear fallout. Oliver emerges from the bedroom in clean sweats, bleary-eyed and sheepish. She hands him a mug of black coffee and sets a hot bowl of homemade matzah ball soup in front of him. Three Advil sit next to another large glass of water. 

She waits. He takes the water and Advil first, then a sip of coffee. He slurps down the soup.  She refills the water. He finishes the soup. Silence. Another bowl of soup is consumed. 

“Flu my ass.  What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sorry. You have to.” She studies him, not letting him off the hook.  They have a staring contest of sorts. The brother/sister dynamic takes on a whole new level of gravity.

Finally, he breaks.  “Ok, ok. Jesus, you’re relentless. Well, when I was in Italy I met someone. You sort of picked up on that in Norm’s the other day.” Alicia nods her head. “ I got an email from him ...let’s see what day is it?”  

“It’s Thursday, May 16th.  You called me with the bullshit flu story Monday afternoon.”

“Man. Well, I got an email from him Monday morning, really early.  The backstory is: I lost my Italian cell phone, and he thought I was blowing him off when I Ieft Italy so suddenly.  Anyway, bottom line, he doesn’t want me to contact him again. And I just lost it. Started drinking after a drive to Matador beach; three days later and well here I am. 

Alicia holds back any snarky thoughts she may or may not have.  Oliver’s heart is broken. That much is clear. “I’m sorry Oliver. That sucks.”  She rubs his hand and bites her bottom lip in compassion. “What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know. Respect his wishes?”

“What about what you want?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if I am going to manage to keep down the chicken soup you made.  Thanks for that by the way. How’s Dad?” 

Good deflection Oliver. 

“He’s making great strides. He was walking in the hallways today, flirting with the nursing staff and suggesting improvements to make things more efficient around the unit. You know Dad, if he wasn’t so charming he’d be obnoxious.  I told him you had the flu. Too sick to even phone him. You owe me one, brother.”

“I owe you more than one Alicia. I’ll go see him tomorrow. I need to detox and sleep.” 

 

And so it goes. Over the next few weeks, Oliver’s dad slowly improves.  He returns home and Oliver is there every step of the way, arranging a daily visit from a skilled nurse, setting up a treadmill and retrofitting the home gym for cardiac rehab.  His focus is entirely centered on his parents and sister, leaving no space for reflection or worse, self-pity. 

Alicia and Oliver finally sit down with their father to go over work things.  Their dad, more aware than they were willing to give him credit for, opens with this salvo; “Son, your disinterest in work details couldn’t be less evident.  Should we just call out the elephant in the room and recognize that Alicia is the one who should be running this company at some point?” Oliver’s eyebrows disappear into his forehead.  He shouldn’t be so surprised, however. This is how his father got to be so successful, by reading a room, by intuitively knowing who ‘had it’ and who didn’t. 

Oliver lets out a puff of air and smiles.  The anticipation of having to speak to his father about the line of succession has been weighing on him.  He has no problem at all being involved with the family firm, as he told Alicia. He wants the freedom, however, to go find worthy investments and business opportunities without being tied to an office.  He shares this now with both of them. 

“That speaks to your strengths, and I’m all for it. I just want you to support your sister while she’s taking on more responsibility.”  

Oliver winks at his sister, they both know she’s more prepared and more ready for this than Oliver will ever be. 

Oliver feels like a wind-up doll going through the motions, doing what’s expected of him.  Inside, the longing and sadness have flattened into apathy and ennui. It’s been 6 weeks since he left Italy, he’s been home as long as he was there.

His dad is now spending 3 or 4 hours a day at his office with Alicia. His mom is taking classes in ‘Heart Healthy’ cooking and working out with his father at home. Everyone is moving in a forward direction, except Oliver. 

The text from Rob comes way too early one morning. 

> **Rob:** _ Hey. You never told me what happened with Elio and the email. _
> 
> **Oliver:** _ He told me to piss off.  But he did open the email, there’s that.  _
> 
> **Rob:** _ Oh damn it. I’m sorry.  Is that the end? _
> 
> **Oliver:** _ I guess it is.  I’m so sick of my love life reading like a Sophoclean tragedy. _
> 
>  

_ Some time passes.  A few hours later another text comes through. _

> **Rob:** __ _ “There is a saying in Tibetan, 'Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength.' No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that's our real disaster.”  _
> 
> _ ―  _ **_Dalai Lama_ **
> 
>  

Oliver reads the text a few times.  The phone rings and it’s Alicia. 

“Hi, Alicia. What’s up?”

“Hey. Half yearly reports are due in 2 weeks. The end of the quarter is coming up rather quickly. Would you be willing to spend some time with me going over what should and shouldn’t be included? Eventually, I know, the shareholders go over them and well, I want to do this right.”

“Yes sure, I’ll help. I don’t have a lot of experience with that stuff, Laurence, the CFO, should go over all the figures with you, but, yes, of course.  When does our fiscal quarter end? “

“June 15th! Three days! Despite Dad’s health, I think the numbers are still strong.”

_ June 15th, that date, why does it resonate so strongly? Ah fuck. Yes. It’s Elio’s birthday.  Damn it. What did he say about his birthday? Oh, they always celebrate it at that restaurant...in Crema. _

Oliver’s mind starts going a million miles an hour. It may be his only chance.  He has to go for it. 

“Hello? Are you there? Hello? Oliver?”

“Sorry. I lost my train of thought. Listen, you better bring those reports over today.  I may not be around tomorrow.”

“Oh, do you have plans? Good. I mean you’ve basically been a hermit this past month, just going between Mom and Dad’s and your apartment. I’m glad you’re going out.”

“Yeah, I mean, I might be gone for a bit. We’ll see.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Mae428, the best beta ever.  
> I loved getting all of your comments, and I know most of you hoped for a more linear resolution, but that's not how it panned out. Glad you are still reading, and invested. Remember. I want what you want.


	13. Chapter 13

Elio always looks forward to dinner at Botero. They have a private room reserved, in the back, separated from the main dining area by a pair of large glass doors. Tonight it’s his parents, Marzia, and his aunt and uncle. A small group. He is pleased. Maybe he and Marzia will go out to a club after, or to a bar. He’s glad she didn’t ask to bring Enzo. He has to hand it to her, she’s intuitive.

Elio’s hair longer now, he is dressed in a neat, well-tailored jacket from a sample sale in Milan. His skin is starting to absorb the warm summer glow so suited to his coloring. Objectively, thinks Marzia, he is absolutely gorgeous, magnificently poised on the brink of manhood. 

Because they have been coming here for years, the chef prepares a feast. They don’t have to order, the food just keeps on coming; delicate appetizers, fresh grilled calamari, lightly breaded zucchini flowers. The pasta course is sublime, agnolotti stuffed with ricotta in a sage garlic sauce that melts in your mouth. And the main course; Langoustines perfectly prepared, a musky truffle butter dipping sauce, it is a meal fit for kings, or in this case the Perlman family. There is wine, there is a toast - to Elio’s birthday and to his happiness, to his career and his continued studies. He smiles. 

Sitting at the wrap-around bar is Oliver. He has a view of the gathering, somewhat obscured by a column and the busy rush of the wait staff, he observes. He’s hoping that Elio will go to the men’s room and he can intercept him, not make a scene, just arrange a time for them to talk. To say that he is nervous would be a vast understatement. It seems unreal and borderline insane that he has traveled around the world, to this charming town just to have a conversation. Second guessing is for amateurs; he is probably on his eighth round of incertitude. 

He sees that they have finished their meal. Waiters are clearing away the dishes. Espresso is being served. In his periphery, he sees a cake being brought out from the kitchen. It is topped with lit candles and delivered accompanied by the sound of “Tanti auguri a te.” Oliver is off his barstool, walking toward the glass doors, his feet acting on their own accord. 

Elio sees the chocolate layer cake arrive and hears the “happy birthday” song started by the waiters but soon carried by the entire restaurant. Everyone is on their feet, singing, gathered around the cake, taking pictures. He closes his eyes and makes a wish. When he opens them to blow out his candles, this time it’s not Oliver’s desires manifested immediately, it’s Elio’s. Because what he wished for deep, deep, in his heart is standing in the doorway.

As Elio leans forward, Oliver sees it. The glint of the bracelet on his wrist. And he knows. He knows that everything is going to be alright, that Elio is still his. 

Elio takes a deep breath, he thinks he might be hallucinating or his imagination placed Oliver standing by the glass doors. He looks again, and no he wasn’t delirious, there he is, leaning against the threshold, with a small smile playing on his lips. Marzia follows Elio’s gaze and her eyes alight on Oliver. She cocks her head and creases her brow as she makes eye contact with Elio. He mouths “Oliver” to her, and she moves to stand next to the birthday boy. She takes over the cutting of the cake and elbows him out of the way toward Oliver.  Elio makes his way to the door while his family is focused on the distribution of the cake.

Oliver looks down at him and says simply, “Happy Birthday.” 

Elio takes Oliver’s hand and practically drags him across the restaurant, pulling him outside around the corner, where it is quieter, and there is privacy. 

“What are you doing here? I can’t believe this”

“Are you upset I came? I just had to see you, straighten this out. I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding, this was my only chance to explain.” 

“What do you mean your only chance?”

“Well you didn’t want me to email you and I didn’t have your phone number any longer. I knew  you celebrated your birthday at Botero every year, so…”

“You flew halfway across the world to apologize for not saying goodbye?”

“It’s more than that Elio, more for me at least.” 

“It is?” 

“I know what you wanted, what our agreement was but…” Oliver hesitates, blows out a breath. “ Somewhere along the line, I lost my heart. I’m sorry. I just…”

Elio reaches up to Oliver’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss.  There will be no further need for explanations or apologies all that Oliver needs to know is in the kiss. 

Marzia is standing outside, she clears her throat and our boys break apart. 

She speaks English in order to not be rude to Oliver. She is grinning. 

“Your family is wondering where you are.  Hi. I’m Marzia, Elio’s friend, and you are?” “Oliver, um. A friend, from the States.”

“Welcome Oliver, c’mon,  let’s introduce you to everyone and have some cake.”

The three of them re-enter the restaurant and head to the back room. Everyone looks up upon their arrival. 

“Zia, Zio, Mom, Dad,  This is my friend Oliver.  He came to surprise me on my birthday.”

Elio doesn’t miss the quick glance Annella gives Samuel.  

“Welcome Oliver, I wish we had known you were coming, we just finished eating.  May I get you something? Should I have the waiter bring you a little dinner?”

“No, Mrs. Perlman. I’m fine. Thank you.”  

“Please Oliver, call me Annella, and this is my husband Samuel, my sister Lucia, and her husband Milo. I see you’ve met Marzia, Elio’s best friend since childhood.”

“Yes, yes. It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. What a beautiful place Crema is, you’re so lucky to spend time here.”  Oliver is in full on ‘meet the parents mode.’ He’s as smooth as silk, charming, charismatic, completely irresistible.  He shakes hands around the table. 

“Where are you staying Oliver?”  

“I’m at the Relais Vimercati, it’s lovely. Even Elio didn’t know I was coming, as he said, it was a surprise.”  

Oliver turns to look at Elio, he is looking down at his slice of chocolate cake, there is a strong blush on face, but also, a big smile. 

Oliver reaches for his hand under the table and squeezes it.

A few questions from Samuel and Annella follow:; how did they meet? Is Oliver a student?  Where does he live in the States? It doesn’t feel like an interrogation, primarily due to Samuel’s gentle nature and naturally inquisitive manner.  Oliver feels nothing but acceptance and warmth. 

 

Elio clearly has had enough of the family portion of his birthday, he stands up and pushes his chair back. “I think we’re going out, Marzia, Oliver?” They both get up and follow Elio’s lead.  “Thank you for an amazing birthday dinner.“ He goes to kiss his parents, and whispers to his mother, “Don’t wait up.” Oliver tells the family how nice it was to meet them and he hopes he will see them again soon. 

The three of them make their way out to the piazza. 

“You two should go talk or whatever...Enzo is on his way, we’re going to go get a drink.”

“No way Marzia, we’ll wait til he gets here. No problem,” Elio says. 

“How long are you staying? Can we hang out at Elio’s or get some pizza or something?” Marzia asks.  

“I don’t know, that sort of depends on Elio,” Oliver says, looking down at him fondly. “We do have some stuff to talk about.”   

Just then, the distinctive sound of Vespa coming around the corner alerts the three of them. 

Enzo pulls up and cuts the engine.  “Ciao Elio.” He looks at Oliver, smiles and then says to Marzia “Sei pronto per andare?” She kisses Elio and then Oliver on each cheek and hops on the back of Enzo’s scooter with a quick wave.

“Who’s that guy? I got kind of a dick vibe from him,” Oliver says shaking his head. 

Elio cracks up. “Yeah, I agree, Marzia’s really into him, I dunno,” he shakes his head and then turns to Oliver. “Do you want to go somewhere to talk, or back to your room, or?” 

“Let’s walk around, jet lag when it hits is gonna hit me hard, so while I can remain upright, show me your beautiful town.” They walk down the Via Tensini, a narrow road with charming shops and apartments on either side.  

“How is your father? Is he doing okay?” 

Oliver nods, “He’s doing really well actually. Thank you for asking. He’s lost some weight, the doctors are pleased, and he says he feels better than he has in a long time. It was pretty scary there for a while. He’s working half days with my sister and spending more time with my mother.  It’s good.” 

“I um, I’m sorry I handled things the way I did. I just didn’t know what to do, and I realize I did the wrong thing. I mean you had so much going on, and I just shut you down. I couldn’t deal.”

They turn the corner and end up in the Piazza Duomo, the center square of the town.  Elio sits on a bench and Oliver follows. 

“Elio, I’m not going to say ‘hey it’s okay, no problem.’ I was really messed up for a while, between you and what was going on with my father.  The past six weeks have been awful. In fact, I’ve been a wreck up until you kissed me outside of the restaurant.” 

In spite of himself, Elio smiles. 

“Can you stay here in Crema for a while? I’d like to make it up to you. Show you that I’m not a horrible person.” 

“Yes, I’d really like that.”  

Oliver doesn’t know whether it’s appropriate or not to fall back into the roles that they had taken on during the time in Rome.  He’s too tired to think clearly about what the ramifications might be. 

“I’m fading fast, can you walk me to the hotel?”    
“Yes, of course, it’s just down the via Marazzi, c’mon let’s go.” They get to Oliver’s hotel and Elio asks if it is okay if he comes up to his room. 

“Of course, I was hoping you would.”  

It’s a very small boutique hotel, only 6 rooms, sort of a cross between a bed and breakfast and staying at someone’s seventeenth-century villa. Oliver’s room is yellow with a large bed and a beautiful view of the garden. The bed looks especially inviting as Oliver is hit full force with the impact of traveling. 

“I think we have more to talk about, but I just can’t focus right now. Would you stay with me or do you need to get back to your parents?”

“I’d like to stay for a bit.” 

Oliver opens his arms wide, and Elio nestles in, letting out a deep breath. 

“God, I can’t believe you’re here.”   
“Are you glad?”

“The best surprise ever, and I learned something.”

Oliver pushes his nose in Elio’s thick wavy curls, soaking in his scent.

“Oh yeah? What?”

“Once in a great while, if you are very lucky, birthday wishes come true, and you get a second chance.”

Elio has said exactly the right thing.  

Oliver holds him at arm’s length and studies his unguarded expression. His eyes, reflecting the amber glow of the room, more hazel than green, return an unwavering sincerity. 

The reconnection that Oliver had hoped for is simmering right at the surface.    

“I’m going to let you sleep. I will be back in the morning, we can have breakfast. You can come see the villa. We’ll spend the day together.”

Oliver is slightly disappointed but knows if he stays conscious for another 10 minutes it will be a miracle.   He draws Elio in to kiss him. It’s not the heated impassioned kiss they shared outside of the restaurant. It’s a warm slow kiss, that holds promise and possibility. Oliver’s hands framing Elio’s face, tenderly tasting Elio’s beautiful mouth, breathing him in, his tongue gently caressing his young lover’s. His thumb strokes the defined line of Elio’s jaw.   He wants so much more, but it’s not the right time. 

He reluctantly pulls away. Elio still looking up at him with heavily lidded desire.  One more kiss til morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Valentine Love for each and everyone of us. Love is love is love.  
> Friend Love, Pet Love, Parental Love, Romantic Love, all good.  
> So happy for your love of this story. It is a bright light in my life.


	14. Chapter 14

Oliver is up really early, like 3 am early.  He reads for a while and then goes back to bed, managing to squeeze in three more hours of sleep.  

He’s happy, genuinely happy, full on thrilled to his very core.   He’s going to spend the day with Elio, doing who knows what, He doesn’t care.  He knows there will be kisses and touches. He’s sure there will be discussions and feelings and maybe even tears.    And he is sure of one thing. That he wants authenticity. No more hiding behind a persona without letting Elio know exactly how he’s feeling.  He can’t do it. It may have been the thing that he did with L. and early on with Elio, but he doesn’t want to be that guy anymore. 

 

He showers, puts on some shorts and a button-down shirt, and goes searching for a cup of coffee. He doesn’t have to go far. The lobby has a pot ready and some steamed milk put out by a kind soul.  He wonders when Elio is coming by and he finds it ironic that he didn’t get Elio’s phone number last night. But he’s not worried. 

The lobby and intimate dining room center around an open courtyard.  It’s only 7am, and still too chilly to sit outside. Oliver makes himself comfortable in a large wing chair facing the garden and sips his coffee. 

 

Elio, meanwhile, is awake, pacing in the hallway waiting for his parents to come down to breakfast. He has this idea that he and his dad can bike to Oliver’s hotel and his mom can come get his father and then Elio and Oliver can have the bicycles to use during the day. He doesn’t know if it’s feasible, his dad might be busy.  He guesses that he could just bike to town and find Oliver one to rent. But that seems ridiculous, they have 4 perfectly working bikes in the shed. For that matter, it is absurd that Oliver is paying hundreds of Euros a night to stay in a hotel, when the villa has 6 bedrooms and they only use two. 

He also knows that if Oliver stayed at the villa still only two bedrooms would be used. 

 

Finally, finally! He hears his father come down the stairs. 

“You’re up early, Elio.” 

“Yes. Couldn’t stay in bed this morning. I’m anxious to spend more time with Oliver.”

There he goes, oversharing again with his dad, no filter. Will he ever learn?

His father just tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, enough that Elio feels like all of his secrets are splayed out in front of him. This, of course, is projection.  Samuel thinks he is giving his son space, Elio feels invaded. 

The ‘push me pull you’ dance of parent and child continues. 

 

Samuel pours himself a cup of coffee and one for Elio.  “What are your plans for today?”

  
  


“I really want to show Oliver around Crema. It would be great if we could do it by bicycle.”

 

“The Fiat is too small to throw them in the back, but I could ride with you to town. Anchise could give me a lift back. Does that work?” 

“That would be great. Do you have time?  

“Of course.” His dad smiles at him. 

 

“Mafalda, good morning, Elio and I are up early this morning. Can we help you get breakfast on the table?” 

“ No, Professore. Per favore, siediti, lo porterò,”  Mafalda answers in Italian, but her English comprehension is better than anyone knows. 

There is a bowl of cornetti on the table, filled with peach preserves. Mafalda baked them last night. Elio reaches for one and the paper thin Italian crescent roll melts in his mouth. His first thought is that Oliver will love these. He wraps two up in a paper napkin and tells his father that he promised to have breakfast with Oliver. 

“Ok let’s go then, let me speak with Anchise.” 

Elio carefully puts the pastry in his backpack along with two sealed bottles of water. He slips his phone in the side pocket. It promises to be a perfect June day, clear with a slight breeze, no rain or oppressive heat is in the forecast.  

 

His father is waiting by the front door holding up two bicycles.  It’s about a 3 km ride to town, it should take about twenty minutes.  They hop on and Elio pedals quickly out of the gates heading north. All of his manic energy is being funneled into the forward motion of the bicycle. He is literally leaving his Papa in the dust. Samuel smiles to himself, Elio is an open book. Any sort of discretion he might have wished to maintain is completely obliterated by his unchecked bike ride to Crema. 

 

They get to the hotel in record time, or should we say Elio arrives at the hotel in a scant 15 minutes. Samuel has a nice leisurely morning ride, a full 8 minutes behind Elio.  

Elio props the bicycle up against the wall of the hotel and hurries into the lobby. Not seeing Oliver he makes his way to the wide grand staircase that leads upstairs to the guest rooms. 

He hears a low whistle, turning toward the sound, he sees Oliver in the chair looking like the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.  The pull of attraction is irrefutable, he feels his tummy pitch with desire. He walks over and stands between Oliver’s legs. Without any preamble, he leans over and kisses him on the mouth. Sometimes his own audacity stuns him.

“Good morning to you too, Elio,”  Oliver says with a bemused smile. 

“Hi, how did you sleep?”

“Well, woke up a few times, but I feel good. I was looking forward to seeing you.”

“Same.” Elio wouldn’t be able to hide his grin if he tried.

“I rode my bike, and my father will be here any minute, he rode one in for you as well. He’ll get a lift home from our gardener.”

“What a great idea. A bike ride sounds perfect.“

 

“It would be nice if your father could join us for breakfast after having biked all that way.”

Elio scrunches up his face and shrugs his shoulders.

 

Samuel sees Elio’s head above the chair looking down at who he presumes is Oliver. He makes his way over to the boys.  Oliver immediately gets up and shakes Professor Perlman’s hand. 

“Professor, good morning. Thank you so much for riding a bicycle into town for me. Will you join us for breakfast?” 

“I’d love to, although I told Anchise I would meet him at the newsstand at 8:30.  That gives us about 20 minutes together. Is that ok?”

“Sure, they have a small breakfast buffet set up in the dining area.  We can sit anywhere. Someone will bring us coffee.” 

The three file into the intimate and sunny breakfast room There is a large table with fresh fruit, nice crusty bread, yogurt, butter, jam, and boiled eggs.  They each take a plate and find a table by the window. A pot of strong drip coffee is brought over with steamed milk.

 

“Ah, before I forget, I brought you these from home - two cornetti filled with homemade peach jam.“  Elio hands over the semi-squished pastries - they are a little worse for wear but Oliver is oddly touched that Elio packed these up for him.  He takes a bite and is instantly a devoted fan. 

“This is delicious, did your mom make them?”

“No, Mafalda made them, she’s our housekeeper and cook.”

“Please tell her how much I love them.”

“Hopefully you can tell her yourself. I think our bike ride will bring us back to the villa.”

Oliver smiles and takes another bite of the buttery pastry.  

 

When they are all settled with their food, the professor endeavors to get to know Oliver a bit.

“Tell me, where did you go to school and what was your area of study?”

Oliver looks at Professor Perlman and says with a wry expression, “Officially? I was a finance major at Princeton with an emphasis on entrepreneurship. Unofficially,” Oliver leans closer toward Samuel, as if he is telling a secret, “I minored in Art History with an emphasis on the decorative arts of the ‘American Gilded Age.’ By the time I was a senior; in direct contrast to my earlier interest, I became obsessed with social reform as expressed through the arts, something that had great momentum at the beginning of the twentieth century.”

 

Professor Perlman is obviously captivated. “That’s really interesting, something I don’t know much about but would like to know more. Can you give me some examples of people who I might have heard of that did what you are describing?” He asks, between bites of strawberry yogurt.  

 

“Well,”  Oliver thinks for a moment. “In art, Robert Henri, in photography the work of Jacob Riis, and in literature Upton Sinclair.  All of them used their area of expression to expose the conditions of the poor. Henri was trained in the style of Robert Eakins and John Singer Sargent but his portraits and genre paintings depicted the range of society, not just the bourgeoisie.  And of course, you’ve read Sinclair’s expose on the horrors of the meat-packing industry.” Both Elio and Samuel nod their heads. 

“And without a doubt, Jacob Riis’ photography changed the course of history,” Oliver states emphatically.  Oliver’s entire posture has changed. He is leaning forward, using his hands, fully engaged. 

 

Elio is watching this interchange with an internal astonishment. He’s learned more about Oliver in 5 minutes than over the course of their entire “friendship.”

 

“Have you done anything with your passion Oliver? The whole field of visual culture and cross-pollination of history, art, and social justice is a ripe one.  Promise me we can talk about this more? I am fascinated.” 

Samuel glances at his phone and realizes he needs to leave.  “May I chip in for breakfast?” He asks as he reaches for his wallet. 

“No, absolutely not. I am hoping Elio and I will see you later.” Oliver rises to shake his hand. 

 

Samuel leaves, Oliver and Elio continue eating. 

“How come I don’t know this stuff about you?”

“You’ve never asked.” Oliver smiles down at his coffee. 

“My father has a way of drawing people out, you end up telling him your deepest secrets, even if you don’t want to.”

“I can imagine as his child it must feel invasive, but for me, just now, “ he looks up at Elio with a serious expression, “it makes me feel known, and that’s a really good feeling.”

Elio thinks about what Oliver has said.  He, too, wants to really know Oliver, but he doesn’t know how to tell him without sounding sappy and ridiculous. 

 

“I need to go up to my room and brush my teeth and stuff, what should I bring with me today?” 

“I have my backpack, so just bring down some swim shorts and maybe a hoodie for later?”

“Do we need water?”

“Nope, got some.” Elio grins at Oliver.

Elio waits downstairs for Oliver, giving him some privacy. He takes the opportunity to look around the hotel.  He finds it remarkable that he has never been here, yet somehow Oliver found Crema’s most charming and intimate inn. 

He uses the men’s room downstairs and waits for Oliver by the front door, bouncing on the soles of his feet. 

Everything feels different. For Elio, school’s out, he’s home in Crema where he’s comfortable, and Oliver’s here! He’s literally in his own backyard and, for once, he’s controlling the narrative.   

That misinformed thought remains only until Elio’s heart runs amok when he spies Oliver hurrying down the grand staircase. 

 

“I haven’t ridden a bike in a few years, except a spin class at the gym, this should be interesting,” Oliver says as he approaches. 

 

“Same muscles, just more cobblestones and better sites than the buns of the guy in front of you.”

“Well,  if you’re riding in front of me, I won’t complain about the scenery.”

Oliver smiles and hands over his swim trunks and his sweatshirt to Elio. He’s changed his button down to a cotton t-shirt that snugly fits his torso. Elio is tempted to bag the bike ride and request to go back to Oliver’s room. He resists. 

 

The morning is spent touring Crema: seeing the beautiful Duomo, the war memorial, winding in and out of the picturesque streets. Elio photographs Oliver in all of the locations they stop.  There is a tiny part of him that needs to record the experience in case Oliver disappears again like a specter. This minuscule fear sits lodged somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Who can blame him? 

 

Elio times the end of the bike ride to coincide with Mafalda’s Sunday lunch spread.  

 

Oliver, in this short time, has fallen in love with the Lombardy countryside and the sweet town of Crema. The whiff of honeysuckle and the verdant glow of the Perlman villa grounds cements the deal for him. He is enchanted.  Following Elio’s lead, he leans the bike against the sandstone wall and enters the front door. It takes him a moment to focus on his surroundings as the cool dark interior is in sharp contrast to the bright June morning. 

He feels as though he is in a lucid dream. He touches the cool stucco to ground himself. 

 

This is the Yin to the Yang of his life in Los Angeles. There it is all sharp edges and metallic precision, segments divided into crisp, clear delineation with hard concrete boundaries and rigid expectations. Here is the softness, the ambiguity, the possibility of wonder presented in a velvet tableau, all laid out in a banquet with infinite outcomes.  He is suddenly overwhelmed and sits on the slipcovered couch in the vaulted living room of the villa. 

He holds his head in his hands to keep from spinning.  Elio is right there with a cool glass of water. 

“I’m so stupid, I didn’t make you drink more water. You’re probably dehydrated.  Here.”

Oliver drinks it down and smiles. He’s not dehydrated.   

Quite the opposite really. He feels replete with possibility.   

 

It feels like he is peering through a crack in the time-space continuum.  On one side is the cold cement rigid path and right beside it, parallel, in fact, is a hazy sepia-toned future filled with softness and refuge. And isn’t it true, that part of falling in love is wanting to acquire or absorb that which your lover seems to possess so effortlessly? Not unlike  Heraclitus's unity of opposites.

 

As Elio shows Oliver the house, he sees it even more: the intellectual comfort, the life spent among books and writing, making music and creating.  It is a part of him that he has both denied and been denied in his post-college life.

 

The lunch is nourishing, to his palette certainly,  but to his mind and, pardon the triteness, to his soul as well. Samuel has spent the morning looking at the photography of Jacob Riis and brought his laptop to the table. His genuine interest and excitement are far more validating to Oliver than a multi-million dollar investment payout. Samuel speaks to the experience of Riis’ photography and he disputes the notion of Walter Benjamin that in the age of reproduction, the pictures have a diminished aura. 

A broad and stimulating discussion follows, covering topics from journalism to memoirs, the notion of objectivity and the concept of authenticity. 

Elio’s obvious comfort and participation in this intellectual bath stirs Oliver in new and different ways.  He has always been attracted to the way that Elio looks, but this is the first time he has seen him hold his own in something akin to an academic discourse. Oddly, it inflames Oliver to an exceptional degree.  

 

As the meal concludes, Elio picks up on Oliver’s hunger, the one left unsatisfied by the delectable lunch.  It’s just a glance, a slide of the eyes, but Elio feels it like an electric current. 

“We’re going to change into swimming trunks,“ he announces as he rises from the table and grabs Oliver’s hand. 

“Sweetheart, your father and I are going to visit the Rossini’s,  We won’t be back until later, after supper.” Elio looks over his shoulder as he grabs his backpack, and nods, acknowledging his mother. 

Oliver stops and thanks the Perlman’s for lunch. He can feel Elio tugging on his hand and he is trying his hardest to be polite. 

Elio practically drags Oliver up the terrazzo staircase.  Still holding his hand, Elio pulls him into the room. He presses Oliver into the closed door. 

“God. Finally.  I’ve wanted to kiss you for the last 45 minutes,” Elio says, simultaneously exasperated and smiling. 

“Only the last 45 minutes? I’ve wanted to kiss you since breakfast, “ Oliver murmurs,  reaching down to cradle Elio’s neck in his hands. He bends down to kiss him on the mouth. Tentative at first, soft tender pecks, way too gentle for Elio who returns the kiss with an eagerness that makes Oliver smile.  They find their rhythm, growing in intensity as they rediscover each other; tongues dancing. Oliver’s thumb caresses Elio’s cheek as he breaks away to catch his breath. 

“God, my heart is pounding, I feel like you just kissed me for the first time,” Elio says, eyes wide, licking his lips.  Oliver is not sure he could string a sentence together at this point, he just knows he wants more. 

“Mmmm.  Take your shirt off Elio, I need to kiss all of you.”

He complies, and Oliver uses his nose to help nudge the shirt up Elio’s torso. His tongue tasting and licking its way up, stopping to gently suckle at his nipple. Elio keens, arching up, pressing his body against Oliver’s.

“Ahhhh. Fuck, Oliver.”  They both pull the t-shirt over Elio’s head and Oliver gazes at him. 

“You are so beautiful. Jesus, Elio. I missed you.”

Oliver doesn’t hold back.  He pulls Elio close, feasting on his mouth, firmly holding his slim torso.  His hand reaches down and strokes Elio’s hard length over his shorts - he is rewarded with a wanton moan. 

Oliver’s nose is pressed into his curls. He inhales deeply. Elio is pliant in his arms. 

“I couldn’t possibly stay away from you.” He sucks on Elio’s neck, somewhat recklessly, leaving a small mark.  Oliver has one hand on Elio’s back and one hand placed across his abdomen, fingers traveling beneath his waistband while he kisses his jaw. 

 

“I want to touch you, may I?” 

Elio doesn’t answer, just starts to unzip his shorts, and pull them and his underwear down to the floor. He steps aside and his erection bounces a bit, freed from the confines of his briefs. 

Oliver rubs his thumb over the velvety smoothness of Elio’s hard cock. 

“Yes, fuck yes, please Oliver,” Elio whispers.

 

The hand that was on Elio’s back travels up to his shoulders, rubbing, pressing, caressing. 

Making his way to Elio’s curls, Oliver runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it a bit while stroking him vigorously with his other hand, thumb making a full circle over the leaking tip. It must be the intense pleasure combined with the sting of having his hair pulled that makes Elio come.  Maybe the fact that it’s Oliver, back in his life when he didn’t think that was a possibility. All Elio knows is that it’s over too soon - he’s disappointed and a bit mad at himself. 

“Fuck,” Elio mutters, “I’m sorry, I have no chill around you, I came practically the moment you touched me.”

“Don’t apologize. We have some time. I’m not going anywhere.”

That statement lodges firmly in Elio’s brain. 

 

All it takes is for Oliver to glance down at his own erection to refocus Elio on the business at hand, as it were.  Oliver sits on the edge of the bed and the dynamic these two set up in Rome comes into play. Elio immediately places himself between Oliver’s legs, rubbing his thighs, looking up at him,  pressing his lips together.

“I want your hot mouth on me now,” is all Oliver says. He lifts his ass off the bed and pulls down his shorts. 

Elio doesn’t need to be told twice. Domineering Oliver wrecks him. 

He places a kiss on Oliver’s inner thigh. And then one on the other side. He licks his lips and then licks the head of Oliver’s wet cock. He flattens his tongue and uses it to stroke his entire length.  He carefully proceeds to take as much of him in his mouth as he can. Oliver’s hands come to rest on the back of Elio’s head. There’s an intensity and frankly a joy that is present that wasn’t there when Elio first tried this at the Rome apartment. He’s not worried about his performance. He just wants to make Oliver feel good. He lets his hand caress Oliver’s balls and uses his other hand in tandem to work his cock.   

“Fuck, oh god Elio, that feels so fucking good.”  

Oliver wants to close his eyes and give in to the sensation of those warm lips, but watching Elio worship him with such devotion makes it impossible to remove his gaze.  He feels his balls tighten, he is close. Without thinking, his hands press on Elio’s head, he fucks his mouth with a lack of restraint. Elio is game. He loves that Oliver is not holding back. 

Oliver comes with a long low moan and Elio slowly pulls off, continuing to gently stroke and lick him. 

 

Oliver flops backward on the bed with an “oomph.”  It takes him a minute to come back to earth. 

“Elio, I got a little intense there at the end. I wasn’t thinking when I pushed you… Elio?”

Oliver sits up with a start, he is alone.  He frowns, looking around. The door to the bedroom is still closed. 

“Elio?”  A slight edge of panic in his voice

“Yes, Oliver, I’m right here.”  A naked Elio is standing in what Oliver now guesses is the door to the bathroom. He is smiling, and holding a small washcloth.  He crawls on the bed and uses the cloth to clean Oliver up a bit. He kisses his cheek, his forehead, his lips. He presses his nose into the stubble on Oliver’s jaw.  Oliver pulls him down to nestle next to him and puts his lips on the top of his head. He speaks softly into his curls. “Was it too much? At the end there? I just lost it, I’m sorry.”

Elio pulls away to look up at Oliver. “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you were so into it.” They kiss some more, slow lazy kisses, affectionate licks, and tender touches. Elio runs his finger through the slightly damp hair on Oliver’s chest. 

 

Oliver takes his hand and tugs the silver bracelet. 

“Will you spend tonight in my hotel room?”

“Will you consider giving it up and staying here at the house?”

“Um, I don’t know. I mean I’d love to, but..., I’ll tell you what, if your parents offer,  I will accept the invitation. How’s that?” 

Elio rolls his eyes.  

It’s enough for Oliver to pin him down and start to tickle him.  

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Elio Perlman. I’ll show you who’s boss.”

“Oh god, please do.”  

Oliver laughs and leans in to kiss him.

As Elio settles along his body and dozes, Oliver lays in bed absolutely sure that he will remember this moment.  It’s never been clearer to him which path he will continue on, and he hopes it’s wide enough for two. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long on this chapter.  
> I referenced Walter Benjamin and his thoughts on Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. Here is an [article](https://ceasefiremagazine.co.uk/walter-benjamin-art-aura-authenticity/) that discusses the idea of aura and authenticity. The field of visual culture always starts with Benjamin.  
> I also mention the pioneering photography of Jacob Riis. For me, the power of photography as a tool for social change is exemplified by his work. Here is a [link](https://petapixel.com/2013/06/16/how-the-other-half-lives-photographs-of-nycs-underbelly-in-the-1890s/) to some photos and text.  
> Bearing in mind that when these photos were taken, there was a small percentage of the population living in regal splendor; the gilded age occupied by robber barons, oil tycoons and a privileged few. Oliver must have had a reckoning at some point.


	15. Chapter 15

**Languor** , as defined in the American Online Dictionary uses the following example:

 " _he remembered the languor and warm happiness of those golden afternoons."_

And, frankly, that sentence can’t be improved upon.

The coverlet on the bed is sticking to their warm bodies, the buzz of the insect life outside lays down a bed of ambient sound. Dust motes float in the beams of afternoon sun. Oliver wakes from their post-coital nap and records the scene with his mind’s eye. He scans the walls, the posters, Elio’s books and notes lying about. If only he could hold this moment forever.

The mahogany curls laid upon his chest offer a tempting enticement. He so easily could be lost in the smells and tastes of his young lover.  He briefly contemplates another round of lovemaking before the distant sound of music and the crunch of car tires is heard on the gravel drive.

Feeling a kiss to his navel, his groin stirs, ignoring the approaching disturbance from outside.

“It’s Marzia, she comes for a swim about this time, most days.” Elio groans into Oliver’s abdomen, further arousing him.  

“I better go down to see her,” Elio says, as he peels himself away. His eyes alight on Oliver’s hard on.

“Obviously, I, need a moment.” Oliver says, somewhat annoyed at the intrusion.

Never one to forgo an opportunity, a naked Elio strides to the wardrobe to get his swim trunks. He bends over, giving Oliver a full view, provoking him with an extended show of his milky white posterior.

“Jesus Elio, you’re not making this easier, you tease.”

An alluring glance over his shoulder, after donning his trunks, Elio is out the door to greet his friend.

Oliver decides against a quick wank and opts for a cool shower instead.

He is only thinking about the next moment. And that for him is a notable experience. Always a planner, Oliver has spent most of his life anticipating, studying for, thinking about - the next thing. Right now, in the shower he is feeling each splash, smelling the bergamot and thyme soap, breathing in the heavily misted warm air. Fully present, he feels more alive (if that is even possible) more grounded, happier in fact, than he can ever recall. Drying off, he grabs his board shorts from Elio’s backpack, and shakes out the pastry crumbs, chuckling to himself. This feeling, this contentment is so novel it feels like a rebirth.

He grabs his sunglasses and ambles downstairs.  He hears Elio and Marzia giggling and splashing in the water.

They both stop when he approaches the pool.

Marzia is not shy - she brazenly checks out Oliver in his swim trunks, her eyes appraising him, lingering on his wide chest and sculpted arms.  Elio bites his lower lip and looks down into the pool depths, his ears coloring.

Oliver’s no dummy.  He knows they were talking about him before he came downstairs.  He also knows Marzia is giving him the once over. He deflects by climbing up on the wide stone lip of the pool and belly flopping in between them. It breaks the tension and sends a stinging wave of pain across Oliver’s mid-section.  Worth it, as all three of them burst out laughing.

“I was just asking about your day,” Marzia says, looking fondly at Elio. “I hear you guys biked around Crema and saw all the hotspots. It’s pretty cool that you showed up to surprise Elio for his birthday. “

Oliver grimaces a bit. “Yes. I left Rome suddenly under not ideal circumstances. And then I lost my cell phone.  I sort of had to pull a Lloyd Dobler to get Elio to forgive me...Oh, do you know that reference? It’s from a Cameron Crowe movie ‘Say Anything’ - basically a dramatic romantic gesture.”  Oliver is uncharacteristically fumbling, looking for the right words to explain to Marzia and, in turn, Elio why he randomly showed up in Crema on Elio’s birthday.

Marzia nods her head.

“I know the movie, and I know the reference.  American pop culture is pretty well integrated into our lives here.” She swirls her hands over the surface of the water, deciding whether she should voice her concerns to Oliver.   “When you left without a word, Elio was pretty devastated...the salt water bowl of tears on the Passover table took on a whole new level of meaning.” Elio shoots Marzia a stern warning look. She continues, unbothered by Elio’s obvious discomfort.

“Hopefully that won’t happen again, or I may have to make my first trip to the States to find you and hunt you down.” Marzia’s voice remains light, and to the casual observer it would sound like she was joking, but there is an underlying menacing tone that neither of the boys miss.

Oliver goes to stand behind Elio and puts his arms around him, pulling him in tight to his body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Elio pushes his head back on Oliver’s chest and looks up at him, Oliver leans down to kiss him softly on his mouth.

And just like that, Marzia feels like a third wheel.  She dives under the water, momentarily feeling bad for giving Oliver shit.  

When she emerges, she flips her hair back and apologizes. “Sorry Oliver, it’s just I’m very protective of Elio. He’s my best friend and I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

Oliver concurs with a dip of his chin. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you, I get it. Don’t worry. Do you want to have dinner with us in town tonight? Elio has a favorite pizza place he’s been raving about.”

“Yes, that sounds nice. I have plans to meet up with Enzo later, but pizza sounds good. His favorite place is mine as well.  I can give you both a ride back into town. I took my parent’s car.”

They all stay in the pool for a while, trying to stay cool in the blazing afternoon sun.

Oliver climbs out and lays along the edge, Elio stands in the pool and splashes him, trying to fill up Oliver’s bellybutton with water.  Oliver has his sunglasses on, but Elio sneaks glances at him, gratified to see a wide grin on his face.

Elio hoists himself up on the ledge and proceeds to slurp the water out of Oliver’s navel.

“Stop, goose. Seriously, stop.”

He continues.  

Oliver rolls away from him.  Under his breath, he says, “Dammit Elio, you‘re getting me all worked up. You can’t do that shit when we’re not alone.”

“Sorry.” Elio licks his lips and winks at Oliver before diving under the water.

 

“Marz, give us a 15 minute warning before you want to go. I just want a quick shower and I have to throw some stuff in a bag. I’m going to stay at Oliver’s hotel tonight.” Elio says as he crawls back up on the side of the pool.

All three of them sunbathe until Marzia gives them the requested alert.  Elio hops up and dashes inside. Oliver takes his time and gathers the stuff Elio left behind: the towel, his glasses, a book.  “See you in a few.” He strides toward the house, intent on surprising his inamorato in the shower. He hears the water running and drops his trunks in a wet heap on the bathroom floor.

Parting the curtain, he joins Elio in the shower, hissing as the hot water hits his sun-warmed skin.  He stands behind Elio and presses up against his back, his cock bouncing against Elio’s small, tight butt. He takes the soap from Elio and starts to lather his back, his shoulders, his ass.  Cleaning him rather thoroughly, he whispers in his ear what his intentions are for later. “I want you Elio. I want to be inside of you. I will feast on you and open you up with my tongue. I am going to devour you, my love.“  

Elio shivers in anticipation, turns to him and kisses him hungrily.

“I want that so much, I’m ready.”

“Can you keep it together through dinner?”  Oliver asks, turning off the water and grabbing a dry towel from the rack on the wall.  He puts it around Elio’s shoulders, encasing him in a bear hug, drying him off at the same time. “I mean seriously, licking water out of my belly button... that was too much, even for me Elio.”  Elio responds with a passionate kiss that makes Oliver’s knees weak. He takes that as a yes.

Marzia deposits them at the hotel and agrees to meet for dinner in a half hour.  Oliver changes out of his T shirt and into a blue polo for dinner. Elio watches him get dressed, mesmerized by what seems like acres of warm golden skin, his long legs, his firm muscular ass. He implied that he would behave at dinner, but he’s not 100% sure he can.  

The look on Elio’s face can only be described as reverential. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes heavy with longing, Oliver knows that look. If they hadn’t planned dinner it would be game over right now.   

Elio shakes his head a bit, willing himself back. “Sorry I got distracted, um are you ready to go?”

“I’ll say. C’mon, let’s go meet Marzia.”  They amble out of the hotel into the still light evening of the Italian summer.   

It’s about a 15 minute walk to Anima Romita. They hold hands. Oliver’s thumb strokes Elio’s palm sensuously.  Elio continues to play guide, pointing out notable buildings and landmarks, giving informed and concise descriptions that fill Oliver with wonder and delight.

The restaurant is off the tourist grid,  situated on the edge of a municipal park.  The vibe is homey and relaxed, despite the cavernous main dining room.   

Marzia is waiting for them, already at a table having a glass of wine.

She nods to the open bottle of local Sangiovese on the table,  Oliver pours two glasses. Elio is raving about his favorite pizza; prosciutto with burrata on a thin rustic crust.  Marzia is partial to the homemade sausage and fennel with fresh tomatoes. Oliver wants it all. Eventually, he chooses a pizza with speck, brie and Sicilian salt cured olive paste.  He secures an agreement all around that at least one piece will be shared from each pie. (It took a bit of negotiation, as Elio was resistant to the olive paste.) Toeing off his espadrille, Oliver runs his bare foot under Elio’s pant leg.  Elio shoots him a look with eyebrows raised. Oliver returns his stare with an impassive “What?” Elio just shakes his head, his grin directed down at his meal.

The pizza is sublime, the conversation is centered on filling Oliver in on all the local Crema gossip: who’s mad at whom, what the most coveted summer jobs are,  what properties are changing hands. Oliver feels like he must have passed some sort of test with Marzia. She’s more relaxed with him and even laughs at some of his stories. At some point, she looks at her watch and realizes she’s got to hurry to meet Enzo when she said she would.  Oliver picks up the tab, happy that finally she’s warmed up to him.

Elio and Oliver stay at the table and have another glass of wine. Feet tangled out of sight, Hands grasping on the table, this is all foreplay.  They are savoring the salty-sweet anticipation - drawing out the moments that will lead up to the big surrender. Elio wants it. It’s been hovering in his thoughts since he saw Oliver at Botero.  Oliver wanted Elio the moment he saw him ordering a Nutella brioche. But It’s so much more now - no longer just lust or acquisition.

 

Elio’s original edict of no feelings has lost its’ bearing.  They’ve both felt more in the last month then either can ever recall.   Today has cemented the deal for Oliver- not just in terms of Elio, but life choices, direction.

For Elio, if truth be told, when he sent that never seen text about renegotiating the terms of their agreement, that was his watershed moment.

Finally, Oliver takes Elio’s hand and pulls him from the table.  They’re not drunk, just a tad tipsy, uninhibited, primed for an intimate, passionate evening.

They walk back through the park, entwined. At some point Oliver presses Elio against a stone wall, gently taking his face in his hands, and kisses him hungrily. Elio responds with equal ardor. It’s not the controlling, designed moment Oliver orchestrated in Rome. This is the opposite: spontaneous, heartfelt, passionate.  

The bed’s been turned down, the curtains are closed. There is a small lamp on the table that casts the room in a subtle golden glow. Oliver closes and locks the door. Elio is toeing off his shoes and gazes at Oliver with a look of anticipation and desire.  Oliver strides across the lush hotel room and gathers Elio in his arms.

“I want you so much, I can’t believe this is happening,” Oliver speaks softly into Elio’s neck.

“I don’t want you to regret anything, are you sure you still want this?” He says as he strokes Elio’s curls.

“God yes. I want this, I want you, more than anything.”

Oliver kisses Elio while pulling the shirt up his torso, they break apart so he can lift it off..  He cradles his head while kissing his neck, his chest, murmuring endearments.

Oliver’s nervous. This in itself is remarkable. Oliver, the sensational lover, the prodigious Ivy league seducer has a fluttering sensation in his gut that would rival that of a 13-year-old at their first make-out party.

He’s determined to make it good for Elio. He’s in his head. If he’s not careful...he’ll…

**“Stop Oliver. Stop right now.”**

Oliver pulls away, his heart pounding.   

Elio sits up. “I know what you’re doing. You’re so worried about me, and what I am feeling and thinking you’re not really here.  Don’t do it. It doesn’t matter if I technically lose my virginity tonight. Virginity is a state of mind anyway. Tonight is so not about that for me.  Please, please come back to this room, to us, right here. Be with me, not in your head.”

  
Sometimes Elio is so very wise beyond his years.

He takes Oliver’s hand and holds it against his chest. Gazing into his cerulean eyes,  he murmurs “just love me, that’s all, love me.”

And that does it for Oliver. He holds Elio tenderly and venerates every available square inch of him. Using his mouth, his hands, he covers his body with nips and kisses. Elio groans in surrender.  Oliver keeps up a steady stream of tender murmurings into his young lover’s neck as he removes his clothes and strokes his tumescent cock.

“You’re mine, baby.  God, you’re so beautiful...so perfect. I want you. I want to be inside of you so badly. Can I baby? Can I fuck you?”

Elio moans. “Please Oliver, yes. Please…”

And Oliver complies, first with his hot mouth and eager tongue and then with his fingers coated with lube. He spends time acclimating Elio to the unfamiliar intrusion, pushing past the self-consciousness and natural inclination to resist.

Oliver nudges Elio’s thighs apart with his nose, cups his perfect ass, and tilts him up, placing Elio’s legs up on his shoulders. As he enters him, his tongue pushes into his mouth, echoing the incursion.

Oliver is completely focused on the subtle nuances of Elio’s reactions; each grimace, the tightening of his jaw, the soft hiss escaping between kisses.  He keeps up a steady stream of endearments. ”You’re so beautiful...god, you’re perfect. Oh Elio, You feel so good around me, such a good boy.” Elio moans when he says that, pushing against Oliver, trying to get him to move.  And he does, slowly, pushing in with his hips, a subtle grind and extended arch. This is where experience serves him, Oliver knows what feels good both to him and his lover.. Elio moans again. “Does that feel good baby? Do you want more from me?”

“Kiss me Oliver, Jesus, Kiss me.”  Oliver kisses him and starts to stroke him in tandem with the press of his hips.  For Elio the pain is replaced with jolts of ecstasy as Oliver nudges his prostate with his well angled thrusts. Elio’s head is thrown back now, his mouth open his eyes closed. Once again, Oliver wants a snapshot of this moment, an imprint of their first time as close as two people can be, joined in body and spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mae 428, she is patient and kind and supportive. Thanks always for reading. There will be at the very least one more chapter. The collective group of readers here keeps me buoyed and writing. How incredible is this forum? We are so lucky. Thanks again for letting me explore this world. It is so much fun.


	16. Chapter 16

Annella and Samuel are about to send in the equivalent of the Italian National Guard.  They haven’t heard from Elio in two days. Not really, but, by the third morning, at breakfast, Samuel does say: “A text message at least, I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“Go ahead darling, send him a text, if you’re so worried.”  

Samuel does,  it’s benign enough, not too intrusive he hopes.  

**“Just checking in on you. Everything ok?”**

There’s a hum on the table from the incoming text. Elio lifts his head and grabs his phone. He’s surprised he has enough strength to even do that. It’s been a non-stop sex marathon for the last 2 days. Not that Oliver hasn’t kept him fed and hydrated, it’s just that every moment not filled by sleeping or eating has been occupied by various configurations of their coupling. Oliver’s insatiability matched by the recent unleashing of Elio’s libido has kept them sequestered in the luxurious hotel room. The ‘ Non disturbare’ placard has remained steadfastly on the locked door handle. 

Elio feels he is both making up for lost time while simultaneously at a loss to contain the overwhelming tide of his attraction for Oliver.  As soon as his body recovers, his mind devises a novel spin on how to arouse the American demigod next to him yet again. It’s a hedonistic circle of carnal delights, instigated by both of them.  The room reeks of sex and sweat. 

 

Elio texts his father.   **“Everything is great. I will call you later.”**

 

Oliver opens his eyes and looks at Elio, raising an eyebrow. 

“My dad. He texted to see if we were okay.” Elio laughs. “We haven’t left this room in over 48 hours. I don’t blame him for being worried.” 

“Do you need to call them?” Oliver says, concern seeping through the obvious exhaustion in his voice.  

“I will. I just need a few minutes. I feel so spacey.”

“What you’re experiencing is something scientists call a ‘sex haze.’ Drink some water, stop looking at my naked body, you’ll snap out of it.”  Elio lacks the will to even playfully punch at his lover. He does pour himself a glass of water, drinks it, refills it and hands it to Oliver, who downs it in one go.  They both pull themselves up to lean against the headboard. They look at each other and laugh, coming together in a soft kiss. They are the perfect picture of glutenous ruin, sexual satiation taken to an extreme measure. But who can blame them? 

 

As these two languish in their afterglow, the universe further conspires - this time- to keep them together.  One would hope, after the mishaps earlier in the spring, that a certain amount of parallel synchrony is their due.

Unbeknownst to Elio, a letter and some brochures are awaiting him at the Villa.  A former professor of his from the Milan Conservatory has taken a position at the Mannes School of Music in New York City.  This professor, Arturo Brambilla, has always been a champion for Elio. He was the one, in fact, that recommended Elio take a semester in Rome. The letter, in short, tells Elio that there is a graduate degree program given at Mannes that would be a perfect fit for him. Brambilla offers to be his mentor and assures Elio his admission is all but guaranteed. He has also included paperwork that outlines a fellowship which covers the cost of tuition. 

 

Eventually, Oliver heaves himself out of bed and into the bathroom for a piss and a shower.  Elio can’t even muster enough energy to bathe with him. He closes his eyes, buries his nose in Oliver’s side of the bed, and breathes deeply.

 

And awaiting Oliver, in his crowded email inbox, is a request from his father.  A plea, phrased somewhat tentatively, to attend to some non-urgent business in New York.  It concerns an ancillary company that needs some management and financial reorganization. 

He stresses in the email that Oliver’s presence wouldn’t be needed until August, but he hopes he can count on him to go straighten things out. The added zing being that it would give his father ‘peace of mind.’

But, right now, these two life-changing missives will have to wait, as a freshly invigorated Oliver pulls Elio out of repose and proceeds to ravish him against the bench situated at the end of the bed. 

Elio, although somewhat exhausted, is betrayed by the firmness between his legs, as he is lovingly pounded into the elegant damask fabric.

 

Later, much later, Elio calls his father to tell him that, “Oliver and I had some catching up to do,” and he apologizes for being out of touch.  Samuel, without prompting, floats an invite for Oliver to stay at the villa indefinitely and encourages Elio to extend the offer. 

 

Professor Perlman has thought a lot about Oliver and the teacher in him wants to encourage this promising young man’s obvious intelligence. He questions his own motivation to help and doesn’t want to overstep. Elio has warned him in the past about crossing the line and he’s unsure of the right thing to do. He’s confident that an invite to the villa is okay but his clandestine research into doctorate programs in visual culture would be considered excessive. 

 

During the course of his day, Samuel keeps coming back to the work of Jacob Riis that Oliver showed him.  He wonders what Oliver thinks of Banksy’s statement:  “Bus stops are the best places to exhibit art, art galleries are the trophy shrines for millionaires.”  Prof loves the idea that Banksy is akin to Riis, using powerful visuals for social commentary. There’s so much he wants to discuss with him:  abstruse theories like topic modeling as a way to detect underlying bias in contemporary art criticism and the concept of psychical distance in evaluating objects and art.   He has a gut feeling, and he is not often wrong, that Oliver can contribute something meaningful to this ongoing debate. Oliver just needs to acquire the academic chops to give him credibility.   

 

Samuel shouldn’t worry, however. In the short time that Oliver spent at the villa, a switch was turned back on. It’s simmering on the back burner right now as he and Elio reconnect, but the flame has been lit. 

 

It’s another full 24 hours until Samuel and Annella hear from Elio again. He sounds exhausted, but happy. 

“Hi. We were thinking of coming by this afternoon. Maybe swim, and have dinner with you,” Elio says after Annella picks up the phone.  “Is that okay or do you guys have plans?” 

“No tesoro, that would be wonderful. I’ll tell Mafalda. Is there anything that Oliver doesn’t eat?”  She hears muffled talking and Elio returns to the phone “No, nothing at all. We’ll be over around 2.  OK, see you later.” 

 

Elio finally remembers to ask Oliver about staying at the villa. 

“My parents want to know if you’ll stay with us at the house,” Elio says, tilting his head slightly and biting his lower lip. The nagging worry that Oliver may just vaporize hasn’t completely disappeared. Elio isn’t sure what might be construed as pressure.  For someone so intuitive, it’s astonishing that Elio doesn’t realize how truly smitten his American lover is. 

 

The offer is considered, and Oliver asks, “Are you okay with that?”

Elio nods and smiles.  

“Ok, I’ll talk to the front desk when we go out. I’ve paid for the week, but they won’t mind me leaving early I’m sure.”

 

“You paid for the week? Really? What if I had told you to fuck off on my birthday. Would you have hung around?”  Elio asks, a smirk playing on his lips. 

 

Oliver responds seriously, “I couldn’t even let myself consider the possibility of that happening. I never would have gotten on the plane.” He thinks about what he would have done had Elio rejected him, his brow furrows. “I would have hung around Crema for a few days, hoping to run into you. Maybe once you got used to seeing me, you would have given me a second chance.” He starts to gather the clothes that had been strewn around the room, avoiding eye contact with Elio. 

 

Elio sees it: a flash of vulnerability.  Like experiencing a rare bird sighting, he doubts what he has seen and heard. He’s always thought of Oliver as the one in control. In fact, that is a huge part of the draw. To think he might have any sort of power over Oliver stuns Elio.

 

He crosses the room, stills Oliver’s hand and looks up at him. The smirk is gone, replaced by a look of unabashed reverence. “There’s not a chance in hell I would have told you to fuck off, You know that don’t you?”  

Oliver avoids his gaze.  

“I don’t know anything Elio. This may all be a game to you. I am your first. How can I even hope that this will last?”

 

Elio’s stomach plummets. “What do I have to do to convince you? I may be inexperienced or whatever, but I know something like this doesn’t come around every day.”

 

Oliver turns away, continuing to straighten out the wrecked hotel room. 

“I guess time will tell.”

“I’ll tell you right now. I’m not going anywhere. I want you to stay here with me as long as you can. Please?” Elio implores.

 

Finally, Oliver stops straightening up and turns to look directly at Elio, to gauge his intention. 

“You do? Are you sure?”

 

Elio nods. “I am positive. I have never been surer of anything, ever.”

 

Oliver lets out an audible sigh and reaches out with both hands to bring Elio in close. He hugs him hard and places soft tender kisses on his bare shoulder.  Elio’s cheek is pressed against Oliver’s chest. 

 

Elio feels so many things at once; protected, cherished, turned on, happy. His mouth opens against Oliver’s woolly pec. His tongue snakes out to stealthily to lick his nipple. Oliver clutches him tighter, laughter rippling his abdomen. “Don’t start Elio, I won’t have any strength to bike to your parent’s house.” 

 

“Oh shit, that’s right. How the fuck am I gonna sit on a bicycle seat? Jesus.” 

They both laugh until tears stream down their faces. 

“We’ll figure it out. I guess we can borrow the car later to pick up my stuff?” Oliver manages to get out between gasps for air.  Elio nods, wipes his eyes, and tells Oliver he is going to take a quick shower. 

 

The bike ride is a bit uncomfortable for Elio, but he tries to minimize it, and races ahead of Oliver by hiking his butt above the seat and pedaling quickly. They arrive at the villa out of breath and sweaty.  Annella and Samuel are sipping lemonade in the shade. They are happy to see the boys. The smiles between them remain private and hidden.

 

The bikes are laid against the sandstone wall haphazardly; Oliver approaches the Perlman’s with an outstretched hand and large grin. 

“Thank you for inviting me to stay - it's so very generous of you!”  Annella smiles indulgently and says, “It’s not without obligation Oliver. Samuel has no summer intern this year, I think he plans on putting you to work.

“Stop! I don’t want to scare him off sweetheart,” warns Samuel, eyes dancing. “There are things I’d like to discuss with you. But not now, now you two should have some lemonade and go have a swim.”

As if on cue, Elio approaches with two ice-filled glasses and pours lemonade from the pitcher on the table.   

 

The discussion in the hotel room has cleared away any residual anxiety on both of their parts. The connection practically crackles between them.

 

The hot, hazy afternoon is filled with swimming and a leisurely nap until they are called for dinner. If they hadn’t been called, the divine aroma would have woken Oliver anyway. 

 

Mafalda has prepared Riso alla pitocca \- a super creamy risotto made with butter, parmigiana, and sauteed chicken.  The meal is paired with a locally bottled wine and some roasted asparagus. They eat in the room adjacent to the kitchen on a broad pine table filled with good bread, local butter, and way too much food.  Samuel waits until Oliver has had some wine and a few bites of dinner before he launches into one of the many topics he wants to discuss with him. 

“Oliver, do you have obligations that will require you to return to the States?” Samuel asks, peering over his glasses, as Oliver tries not to shovel the amazing risotto too quickly into his mouth. 

“I don’t know. I have been assiduously avoiding my email since I got here. I hope not. Why?”

“Well because I thought I was going to take the summer off, I didn’t arrange to have a graduate student intern with me for the month of July.  Now, I am inspired to transfer my slide collection to video and I need help cataloging and archiving them. I thought with your assistance it would be a less arduous task.” 

Oliver immediately looks to his right to ascertain Elio’s reaction. His gaze is met with a grin that occupies the entire bottom half Elio’s face. 

“I’d love to help. I’ll borrow a laptop and check my email after dinner. What a wonderful offer Professor.”

“Oliver! Please call me Samuel,” he says with mock annoyance. “You’re family now. Don’t stand on ceremony. If you were a guest, we’d be eating in the formal dining room.”

Oliver laughs, and is filled with a warmth that makes his chest expand. The feeling is further amplified by Elio’s hand squeezing his under the table.    

 

That night, in Elio’s room, Oliver borrows the laptop and checks his email.  He sees the letter from his father and feels both relieved and annoyed. Pleased that there is no pressing business that needs to be handled right away, and annoyed that an obligation will pull him most unwillingly from his Italian idyll. 

He responds, saying that, yes, he will deal with the issue in August. He sends his best and is vague as to the details of his time spent in Crema. 

 

Elio, on the other hand, whoops out loud after reading what Annella remembers to hand him -the small packet that arrived from New York 3 days prior. Professor Brambilla has always been his absolute favorite, and the fact that he hasn’t forgotten him, indeed, that he has reached out to him, thrills Elio.  He stands behind Oliver waiting for him to finish his email, anxious to look up the Mannes School of Music. 

Prior to Oliver’s surprise visit, Elio was struggling to reconcile his return to the conservatory in Milan. He was feeling like he had very few options and the possibility of studying in New York had not even occurred to him. This is a godsend. He could complete his undergraduate studies and be well on to a master’s with a teacher he reveres and respects. 

 

Oliver turns around, after signing out of his email program.  “You’re anxious to get online. What’s going on?”

Elio tells him about the letter and pamphlets he’s received. Bouncing on his toes, he practically sits on Oliver’s lap in order to Google the music school. 

Oliver leans in and speaks softly, his deep voice ruffling the curls on Elio’s neck. 

“You would consider coming to New York? That would make me very very happy,” Oliver says, placing a soft kiss on the side of Elio’s jaw.  Elio turns and starts to speak, “I know you are in LA, but we could work something out, I mean…”

“No, Elio, I have some work to do in New York, for my father. I just got the email. And we have a huge apartment there. It will be perfect.” 

 

Elio’s heart leaps inside his chest; a summer with Oliver in Italy, and the prospect of it continuing in New York in the fall. This was, up until 4 days ago, not even in the realm of possibility.  He nuzzles up to Oliver, pushing his head into his chest. 

“I’m so happy, to have you here, to be with you in New York, so so happy.”

“Me too, so happy Elio.”  Oliver bends down to kiss Elio on the mouth, tongues dancing, eyes closed, hearts pounding.

Just then, Samuel pops his head in, clearing his throat.

“Oh hi, sorry to interrupt. I’ll come back.” 

“Papa! Jeez.”  Elio turns to Oliver.  “This is what I was talking about, no locks on the doors. Are you sure you want to stay?”

Oliver, parroting back what was said to him earlier, responds “ I have never been surer of anything, ever.”

The kiss is redone. This time with no interruptions. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of part one. I will continue the story with Oliver's academic awakening and some glimpses into their time together in NY. I am, as always, overwhelmed with the positive feedback and love this story has gotten. Thank you for staying with me on this one.


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